


Come Morning I'll Be Gone

by TrashcanGod



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Grantaire, BPD Grantaire, Borderline Personality Disorder, Falling In Love, Families of Choice, Fluff, Frank Turner - Freeform, Grantaire Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it's not explicitly named but the symptoms are pretty obvious, M/M, Musician Grantaire, Nonbinary Jehan, This sad motherfucker, chapter titles are all song titles, low key reincarnation au, work title is from the song Wanderlust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 18:56:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 49,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10224893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashcanGod/pseuds/TrashcanGod
Summary: Grantaire never stayed in one place for too long, following an instinct that pulled him toward the horizon and urged him to run and roam. Then, he got to Paris."He was the sun, but his fury was icy and scornful. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to see it become a righteous roaring flame."(In which Grantaire is a vagrant, Enjolras has feelings, and Marius and Courfeyrac are altruistic rich boys.)





	1. Vital Signs

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what possessed me to write an entire ExR fic inspired by various Frank Turner songs, but here we are.
> 
> Unbeta'd because I'm a friendless loser who was willing to put way too much time into writing, rereading, and editing this monstrosity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Grantaire stumbled upon the modern temple of Apollo, a.k.a. the social justice brigade, a.k.a. Les Amis de l'ABC.
> 
> (Warning for descriptions of homophobia.)

Grantaire wasn't homeless. It was true that he had no address and didn't always have shelter for the night, but that wasn't because he didn't have a home. It was more because _everywhere_ was his home.

There were easier ways to live, ways that gave people fresh meals, soft beds, and warm showers. But cheap fast food wasn't bad, and anywhere could be a bed if you tried hard enough, and showers weren't so hard to come by after figuring out the best ways to sneak into gyms and health clubs (and if it came down to it, one night stands were a great way to gain access to a stranger's amenities). Grantaire's lifestyle was unstable, but it was free and simple. He didn't have to deal with bills or work or other mundane issues; he created art, he roamed, and whatever funds he earned on the street went to food, booze, meager art supplies, credits for his disposable phone, and the next train ticket to his next destination. That was all he ever had to worry about.

This also came with a lack of friends and next to no social life, but Grantaire tended to be a bit of a loner anyway.

Sometimes he liked to imagine that the flecks of paint he left behind wherever he stayed were slowly coloring the world, dyeing mankind's urban footprints to match his own stained skin and clothes. With every step he dragged a brush behind him, laying reckless strokes on pavement as every note he idly strummed colored the polluted air. He tried to explore practically every corner of each location, painting the entirety of even the largest cities. He wanted to learn the buildings’ secrets, hear the whispers in the walls and the echoes of steps on the streets.

That was the poetic way of putting it. He also just wanted to find the best bars, and those tend to hide.

This was why, fresh off a train at nearly nine o’clock on a Tuesday night, Grantaire wandered into a homey little place called the Café Musain, tucked away in the 5th arrondissement of Paris. The café was all rustic wood and amber light, a three-sided bar with a few round tables scattered about and booths along the left wall. He wasn't the only one there, but he was close—the only others present aside from the bartender were a group of people around his age, seemingly university students judging by the few with a textbook or notebook they weren't bothering to study, spread around two tables by the right-hand counter of the bar and loudly chatting amongst themselves.

Two of them, a ginger and a tough-looking guy who had the faint scars of brawls past, were in an arm wrestling match with enthusiastic color commentary from a young man with dark curls who cheered between bites of chips, a freckled boy occasionally snatching one from him. Someone with a strawberry-blonde braid and a soft-looking cardigan was chatting with two fellows who wore matching grins, and a young man with glasses talked to a person with blonde hair whom Grantaire could only see the back of.

It seemed a bit awkward to be the lone guy in the same room as a boisterous group of friends, but Grantaire honestly did not give a fuck. He rolled his old suitcase to the bar, dropped his knapsack on the floor to give his spine a break, and placed himself on the stool farthest from the other patrons. The bartender, curvaceous with a warm-but-strong look about her and rich skin that reflected a russet glow in the bar's lighting, placed herself in front of him.

"You're new around here," she said in lieu of a greeting, giving Grantaire a bit of pause.

"Is it that obvious?"

She smiled and glanced in the direction of the floor. "Luggage."

"Oh. Right."

The woman laughed, warm and not at all unkind, then asked, "What can I get you?"

"Shot of whatever?"

The wonderful thing about being one of the only people in a bar was that there was no fighting for the bartender's attention, so Grantaire downed his drink with the comfort that he could get more whenever he wanted it.

He peeked over at the rowdy group again when the blonde one cleared his throat pointedly and stood to speak, and Grantaire was glad that he could see him better from this angle because _good god_ was he a sight to behold. He spoke with an air of vehemence and indigence, and his strong voice brought as much light to the room as his divine appearance. His eyes were fearsome ocean tides lit with sparks of rebellion, his hair was gold spun into fine silk that gently brushed his shoulders in untamed ringlets, and his facial structure... da Vinci would've cried. Hell, Grantaire might've cried if he had a bit more liquor in him.

The man was glowing, not only in complexion, but in presence. It was nine at night, yet it seemed that the sun had reappeared in the middle of an old café hidden in the byways of Paris. Grantaire was no believer, but he'd suddenly found himself in the presence of Apollo.

As it turned out, Apollo was quite the bright-eyed idealist. On the positive side, he wasn't homophobic; on the not-as-positive side (not necessarily negative, just a bit questionable) he was of the opinion that it was possible to somehow _fix_ homophobia. Grantaire had received enough kicks to the stomach in his life to know that wasn't going to happen.

Regardless of the content, the speech itself was nice to listen to (read: the speaker's voice was nice to listen to). The group talked about plans, a couple of them tossing out ideas—the one with the chips cheered "PSA, with me directing!" and Grantaire almost snorted at the collective “no”—until they settled on glasses guy's idea of a newspaper piece, which was to be written by Apollo and the one with the braid (Jehan, apparently). With that, the meeting was adjourned.

As most of the students meandered out, the happy two stopping to lean over the bar and give the bartender a kiss on each cheek, Grantaire ordered another shot and knocked it back to wash down the bittersweet taste that the orator's words had left him with. He slammed down the glass (upside-down, as is proper bar etiquette), and at the sound of a startlingly close "Hello!" he nearly fell off his stool.

Grantaire swiveled to his right to see one of the boys from the meeting sitting next to him with an innocent smile. "Um. Hi." The boy's freckled face grew brighter, and Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

"I noticed you listening in on our meeting," he said, as if it explained everything. "Did you like it?"

"The speech was good," Grantaire answered simply, because this boy seemed too pure to be told the truths of this cruel world.

He seemed placated by that though, and happily agreed. "Wasn't it? Oh, I'm Marius." He stuck out a hand, which Grantaire shook with only mild caution.

"Grantaire."

"Enjolras is a really good speaker." Apollo had a name, good to know. "Honestly I grew up a bit more, uh, _sheltered_ than the others, but with the way he talks about things, I want to help in whatever way I can, even if a lot of it's mostly financial support." He thought for a moment, then added, "I've actually been told not to tell strangers that my family has money, but you seem trustworthy enough. I mean, you listened to the meeting, and you looked completely taken by it."

If the scruffy man with luggage and unkempt hair stuffed into an old faded-red beanie who was knocking drinks back like water struck Marius as trustworthy simply because he was enraptured by a speech (perhaps more so the speaker), then there was reason to be at least moderately concerned for the kid's well-being.

"You should come to our next meeting,” Marius added. “Les Amis is always open to new members! That's what we're called by the way—Les Amis de l'ABC." Grantaire snorted, and Marius grinned at the appreciation of the pun.

"The more people who'll stand for the cause, the better. Er, well, _causes,_ I mean. You know how Enjolras is—well actually you don't, but I know how Enjolras is, and he's definitely like that." Marius paused and glanced behind him to see that only the aforementioned god-in-the-guise-of-a-man was left in the café, neatly arranging papers in folders. "Do you want me to introduce you to him?"

Ah, yes, introduce Grantaire to an intimidatingly attractive man out of the blue when he just got to town not three hours ago and had no time to emotionally prepare himself. That sounded like a terrible idea.

Evidently Grantaire was some sort of masochist though, because he dropped some cash onto the bar and grabbed his luggage before Marius eagerly led him over to his friend.

"Enjolras!" The man in question looked up from his papers to look at Marius expectantly. "This is Grantaire." Marius stepped to the side as Enjolras stood, allowing him and Grantaire to stand face to face. Despite being nearly the same height, Grantaire felt small in comparison.

Enjolras gave him a firm handshake and nodded, as if this were a business meeting and not a bar. He took note of the ratty bag on Grantaire's back and the suitcase by his feet and commented with an inquisitive air, "I see you have baggage."

 _Hah, you have no idea._ "Yeah, just got into town," Grantaire explained almost-casually, fiddling with one of the shoulder straps.

Enjolras looked skeptical. "And your first order of business was to go to a bar?"

He tried not to get defensive, and mostly succeeded. "It was a rough train ride and I needed a drink." He decidedly didn't mention that he also drank a bit on the train.

Luckily, Enjolras seemed to accept that as a reasonable answer. He looked at Marius then, clearly confused as to why he was being introduced to some drunkard stranger, and Marius only took a second to catch on. "Oh! Grantaire was listening in on the meeting."

Evidently more comfortable talking about social movements and ideologies, Enjolras loosened up considerably and turned back to regard Grantaire with a look that made him want to simultaneously paint, die, sing, and make a run for it. "You were?"

"Yeah, it was,... interesting." Enjolras quirked a brow in what Grantaire took as a challenge, so he continued without a second thought. "I just don’t know how you actually expect to change anything."

Marius choked and gave Grantaire a look full of shock and warning, which he chose to ignore. Enjolras, on the other hand, only stiffened minutely and clenched his jaw. "Is that so?"

"It is. You talk about educating the people, but the thing is, not everyone wants to be educated. They could be if they wanted to, there are already plenty of resources and opportunities, but they choose to remain in their comfortable bigoted ways."

Enjolras peered at Grantaire as if he'd never before seen a naysayer and wasn't all too pleased with his findings. "The only reason they don't want to learn is because they've never felt that they had reason to try. We just have to give them that reason."

Grantaire snorted with no abundance of mirth. "And kids killing themselves over this shit isn't reason enough? Face it, Apollo," Enjolras looked mildly affronted by the nickname, "the world's shit. There's nothing left to fix, why bother trying to fight it?"

Something changed at that, as if something deep and fundamental was triggered. While Enjolras had been a god before, preaching to the people his sacred word, he shifted into what struck Grantaire as a holy warrior, a far from ambivalent deity prepared to strike. What had mostly been irritation was quickly infused with raw determination that could probably make an entire room bow before him. "We fight precisely _because_ there is nothing left," he asserted, blue eyes hard and cold, voice resolute.

He was the sun, but his fury was icy and scornful. Grantaire suddenly wanted nothing more than to see it become a righteous roaring flame.

With that in mind he paused, then asked, "When's the next meeting?"

"What?" Marius sputtered.

"What," Enjolras deadpanned.

Grantaire continued with nonchalance. "The next meeting. I'll be around for the foreseeable future, so when is it?"

To Enjolras' credit and Grantaire's surprise, he lowered his guard somewhat and answered, "Friday, same time. You said you just got here, do you have a place to stay?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure I'll find one between now and then."

Marius stepped up to the plate at that. "You can stay with me. There's plenty of room, and Courf won't mind."

Grantaire tried not to look too visibly startled by the generosity. "You sure?” he questioned cautiously. “I don't want to trouble you or anything."

"Oh no, it's no trouble at all!" Marius assured him. "I mean, I already let it slip that I'm sort of wealthy, so that's not an issue." Enjolras shifted to regard him with a flat stare, and Marius smiled sheepishly.

Grantaire swallowed. A guaranteed safe place to sleep for multiple nights where he could even relax during the day, nothing asked for in return beyond attending some activist meetings? It sounded too good to be true, and he almost thought it had to be a trick. Marius looked earnest though, as did Enjolras. But why was Enjolras of all people being so kind right after Grantaire practically antagonized him? Were they plotting to kill him, was he going to die that night—

"Grantaire?"

Enjolras looked mostly confused but also perhaps mildly concerned. With that gaze directed toward him, Grantaire decided that he would gladly be struck down then and there. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Thanks."

All three of them left not long after, Enjolras heading down the street in the direction of the Métro while Grantaire followed Marius down the sidewalk going the other way.

“I live in a few minutes away,” he explained as they walked side by side. “Some of the other members live in the same building, actually. Enjolras doesn’t though, he has a place with Combeferre. I think he wanted to live alone, but ‘Ferre has to mother him so he doesn’t neglect his health too much. They’re both kind of social hermits and workaholics though, so I’m not really sure how much good it does.”

Grantaire cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are they an item, or?”

Marius laughed. “Oh, god no. Combeferre would rip his hair out!” Grantaire pretended that he wasn’t at all relieved by this, because no he was _not_ interested in Enjolras. He simply admired art.

The two walked for around fifteen minutes (after five, Marius suddenly remembered Grantaire’s bags and insisted on taking his suitcase for him), chatting amiably all the while. Grantaire offhandedly mentioned his nickname, which Marius laughed at and called clever, and Marius talked about his friends—Courfeyrac especially, seeing as Grantaire would be living with him for the time being.

“You sure you don’t need to call him first or anything?”

“Nah, once Courf showed up out of the blue with three Norwegian people who didn’t speak a lick of French because he said they didn’t have a place to stay and could make really good breakfast. And I mean he was right about that but they also stole our coffee maker, so even if he’s not totally on board, we can just think of this as revenge.”

Living with Marius and Courfeyrac sounded like it was going to be an experience.

They stopped at an Art Deco style building and entered through the front door into a common room. A few residents (“most of them are students,” Marius had said) were loitering about, some watching TV on a couch, one reading in a bean bag chair, a couple playing air hockey—they had fucking _air hockey—_ none of whom Grantaire recognized from the meeting. They went into the elevator, which struck Grantaire as being much nicer than an elevator had any business being, and Marius pressed the button for the top floor.

Marius proved to indeed be one rich motherfucker, because the fourth floor had only two doors in the long hallway, and Grantaire was pretty sure that implied something along the lines of “nice as hell.”

“I’ll give you a key, by the way,” Marius said as he opened the door to apartment 401. “We have a spare. We used to keep it hidden on top of the door in case one of us got locked out, but our friends kept using it to steal our food when we weren't around.”

Grantaire snickered as they entered, Marius closing the door behind them. The apartment was as nice as he'd expected: the front door opened into a living room with light hardwood flooring and a large window taking up most of the left wall, a couch and matching armchair facing the nearest left corner. A quaint, modernized kitchenette was to the right, separated from the rest of the room by a breakfast bar and nestled beneath a mezzanine that overlooked the living room.

“Courf!” Marius called out as Grantaire admired the exposed wooden beams across the ceiling. “We have a temporary roommate!”

Quick thuds could be heard from the hall that lead out of the kitchen before Courfeyrac (whom Grantaire recognized as the one who was sharing chips with Marius) came sliding across the floor in mismatched socks. “Who’s this?” he asked excitedly, a bright grin on his face.

“Grantaire, or R. He picked a fight with Enjolras.”

It seemed that this had suddenly become Grantaire’s defining characteristic. Courfeyrac seemed equal parts amused and delighted. “And he didn't flee the country?”

Marius walked toward the narrow staircase leading up to the mezzanine, rolling Grantaire’s suitcase behind him. “He nearly managed to get him into rallying mode in under four minutes!”

Courfeyrac whistled. “Impressive!”

While Grantaire wasn’t quite sure what 'rallying mode' meant and his instigating had been done mostly on an impulse, he was oddly proud now. “It’s a gift.”

Courfeyrac turned and headed in the same direction as Marius, who was struggling to roll the suitcase up the wooden steps, and grabbed it from his hands to simply carry it up. “This way, your bed’s up here.”

The mezzanine was simple, holding only a bed ( _his_ bed), a nightstand and lamp, and a white bookshelf holding various books and trinkets. “Make yourself at home,” Courfeyrac said amiably as he gingerly set the suitcase down. “Bathroom is in the hall, towels are in the bathroom closet, and now I have to go finish writing a five page report on Charles Darwin.”

With that, he rushed down the stairs and back to his room, leaving Marius to give Grantaire a warm smile. “Just let us know if there’s anything you need.” He headed downstairs, but stopped at the bottom to look back up and grin. “Welcome home!” Seemingly unaware of how the phrase that he said in an almost joking tone made Grantaire’s pulse spike, he disappeared beneath the mezzanine.

Grantaire dropped his knapsack onto the bed then looked out over the railing toward the wide and tall window on the opposite wall, through which the lights of the city twinkled in place of stars. Paris smiled, and Grantaire smiled back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what possessed me to write an entire ExR fic inspired by various Frank Turner songs, but here we are.
> 
> Marius and Courf's apartment is based on a listing I saw during an intense search of Parisian realty, with some Art Deco elements added in.
> 
> I made a lot of little side notes while writing this, so each chapter will have those at the end. (I just like to hear myself talk, I think.)
> 
>  
> 
> [ my writing blog](https://inquisitivelizard.tumblr.com/)


	2. I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Les Amis.

Grantaire woke the next morning to a chant of “shit shit shit fuck shit.”

He blearily opened his eyes, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming into the room, and padded across the floor to lean over the railing. Courfeyrac was rushing toward the door, backpack on, shoes untied, a pastry in hand. He glanced up as he opened the door and saw Grantaire, half-asleep and staring perplexedly. “Morning Grantaire, bye Grantaire!” The last bit was muffled as he crammed the pastry in his mouth, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Grantaire was still dazedly staring at the closed door when Marius stumbled into view below, equally bleary-eyed, wearing a set of pajamas. He stopped and stared at the door for a beat, then looked up at Grantaire. After a silent moment of eye contact, he took three steps forward and fell face first onto the couch.

It took a bit for the both of them to reach full awareness, but they managed to get through breakfast (and Grantaire was grateful for his already meager eating habits because he had almost forgotten just how _light_ breakfast tended to be in France) and were mostly ready to face the world after an hour. They were still loitering in the kitchen when the front door swung open and the braided one, Jehan, strode in with an open moleskine notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Marius, which of these sounds better to you, ‘the forest chatters’ or ‘the forest whispers’?” Jehan looked up from their book and froze when they saw Grantaire, but the surprise soon made way for delight. “Oh, hello! Marius, you didn’t tell me you had a guest!” They stuck their pen behind their ear and made their way to where Grantaire was leaning against the breakfast bar. “I’m Jehan Prouvaire, a friend of Marius and Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire smiled, because so far it seemed difficult not to in the other’s presence. “Grantaire, I’m crashing here for a bit.”

“He listened in on the last meeting,” Marius piped up from in front of the coffee maker, which he was staring at as if he could will it to work faster.

Jehan smiled even more at that, and Grantaire had no idea that it was possible for a person to be such a literal human example of the word ‘delightful,’ but there they stood. “Oh! Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it was interesting.” Because while he did think that their goals were impossible, they were still nice to listen to. He was fairly certain that Enjolras was the only one he’d ever actually debate with about it anyway, and that was for his own stupid reasons.

Grantaire nodded his head toward Jehan’s notebook. “What's the mood?” Jehan made a curious sound and cocked their head to one side. “What you’re writing. ‘The forest chatters’ sounds playful, or it could even be loud and disorienting, but ‘the forest whispers’ is more gentle.”

Jehan’s face lit up. “You know poetry?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Grantaire shrugged. “I was big into literature, still dabble a bit, so I’ve read some.”

He was taken aback as soon as the words escaped his mouth. Divulging facts about his past, no matter how trivial, wasn't something Grantaire did regularly. This was way out of character for him. Come to think of it, everything about the overall situation was out of character; making commitments, staying with friends, _having_ friends. Hell, he didn’t even give his real name half the time. But these people felt comfortable for some reason, almost familiar somehow, and Grantaire's tongue had loosened in a fashion far different from the results of inebriation.

That, however, was a problem for another day, so Grantaire stored it away to deal with later.

If Jehan noticed the moment of mild internal crisis, they didn’t mention it. “That’s wonderful!” they said sincerely. “The only people I ever get to talk to about it are Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac. But Combeferre is really more of a classics and philosophy person, Enjolras would rather talk of politics and the like, and Courf doesn’t actually know what I’m talking about half the time, he’s just nice enough to stay engaged in the conversation anyway. May I ask who your favorite is?”

More personal information, though low on the ladder of confidentiality. He’d already dug his hole anyway, might as well go deeper. “I’m fond of Southey?” he responded, and Jehan made a pleased sound.

“ _I thought of the future whatever I did, that I never might grieve for the past_ ,” they recited, clutching their notebook to their chest. “A good choice. Underappreciated, in my opinion. Enjolras likes him too, which really isn’t all too much of a surprise if you know him.”

Grantaire recalled the poem about showing a rich man the horrible truths of poverty and the other one where a guy shit on the poor and got eaten by rats. Yeah, he could see that.

Jehan’s eyes widened in sudden realization. “Oh god, I nearly forgot why I even came here to begin with. Marius!” Marius hummed from behind his blessedly filled coffee cup. “We have to get to class!”

Marius quickly pulled the mug away from his horrified face, the coffee inside sloshing up and just narrowly falling short of spilling over the rim. He set the cup on the counter and bolted down the hall, then ran back in as he struggled to get his backpack on.

“Bye Grantaire!” he said hurriedly. “I put my and Courf’s numbers on the coffee table with your key, contact us if you need anything, lock the door behind you if you leave while he and I aren’t here.”

“Nice meeting you!” Jehan added, and the door slammed shut for the second time that morning.

Grantaire, still in the same position at the breakfast bar, blinked and belatedly called out a goodbye.

*

The rest of the morning was spent with his sketchbook and charcoal, capturing the view of Paris through the window (and making an attempt to sketch Enjolras from memory, which proved to be difficult and only resulted in a vague impression). He was just putting finishing touches on a page when the door swung open and Courfeyrac strode in.

“R, join us for lunch!” he yelled from below. Grantaire raised his brow at him over the railing of the mezzanine.

“Hello to you, too.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Come on, Joly and Bossuet are coming with!”

“Coming, coming, have patience,” Grantaire chided in jest, already halfway down the stairs with his knapsack hanging off his shoulders. He exited the apartment and Courfeyrac locked the door behind them.

“Did Marius give you my number?” Courfeyrac asked as they waited on the elevator, and Grantaire confirmed. His phone now had all of three contacts in it: Marius, Courf, and customer support. “Amazing, I half expected him to forget then come home with apologies flying out his ass. If you give me your phone later I’ll add in everyone else’s for you too, just to make life a little easier.”

The common room had a few more people in it than it had the previous night, and Courfeyrac led him toward the two who were playing air hockey. They were pretty easy to place, one with a thin face and a cane leaning on the table and the other with a slightly wider frame and bald head, twin smiles serving as evidence if that weren't enough.

“Ah, Joly versus Bossuet,” Courfeyrac announced, a dramatic gesture to each in turn. “And I’m sure I can guess who’s winning!”

“I resent that!” Bossuet protested, before promptly hitting the puck into his own goal.

Courfeyrac laughed while Joly walked around the table to pat Bossuet’s back with the hand not holding his cane. “You must be Grantaire,” the slight man greeted cheerfully. “I’m Joly, and this unlucky fellow here is Bossuet.”

“I’m lucky because I have yoouuu,” Bossuet sang, and Joly sloppily pat his face without sparing him a glance.

The romantic(?) moment was interrupted by Courfeyrac, who unabashedly bellowed, “Food!” and pushed Joly and Grantaire forward. He only had two hands, but that was fine because where Joly went, Bossuet followed.

Grantaire followed the three to a bistro down the street, where they sat at an outdoor table. The waitress had barely said hello before Courfeyrac placed his order, which might have been rude if it were done by anyone but Courfeyrac (and the well-executed wink at the end probably helped). The waitress smiled shyly and moved on to Bossuet, who ordered soup for Joly and a salad with chicken for himself. Grantaire panicked and just ordered the first thing he saw, which turned out to be some sort of sandwich.

As they ate, Grantaire learned about the others and carefully dodged most questions about himself. Joly, he found out, was in med school and earned some money helping out at the hospital (which almost explained his insistent distribution of hand sanitizer), while Bossuet was in law school and lamenting the fact that he couldn’t hold down a part time job. Considering that he managed to break a prong off of his fork—which he didn't even need, he ordered soup, he was just playing with the damn thing—Grantaire didn’t really have to ask why. They both lived with the bartender and owner of the Café Musain, Musichetta, and collectively relaxed when Grantaire didn’t make a big deal out of it.

In between the general chit-chat, Courfeyrac regaled them with amusing anecdotes that he assured Grantaire were “mostly true.” Joly and Bossuet seemed to have heard most of them before, but they cracked up nonetheless.

The food was good and the company was even better, and Grantaire found himself nearly choking on his sandwich a few times as he joked with them as easily as old friends. He ended up surrendering his phone to Courfeyrac while they were at the table and, to his relief, no mention was made of his suspiciously empty contacts list.

*

They ran into Jehan in the lobby when they came back from lunch, and when they all began to pile into the elevator, Grantaire noticed Joly subtly fretting about weight limits and maximum capacities. Out of the kindness of his heart and the desire to take a moment to himself anyway, he elected to take the stairs. He began his leisurely ascent to the fading sound of a more relaxed Joly talking about the benefits of exercise after eating while the elevator closed.

He exited the stairwell at the same time that the elevator ding’d and slid open down the hall, his steps toward 401 synchronized with the person who stepped out. He placed his hand on the doorknob before stopping to turn his head to the right and made direct eye contact with a man in front of apartment 402, also with one hand on the knob. From an outsider's perspective, their perfectly mirrored positions probably would have looked fairly comedic. Grantaire, however, was only uncomfortable.

The stranger was lithe and well-dressed, with a bulky bag slung over one shoulder. A few strands of tousled black hair hung over his pale face, only serving to accentuate the striking green eyes that stared into Grantaire. They stared for a few beats, then the man nodded curtly and smoothly entered his apartment, shutting the door behind him in the same fluid motion.

It took Grantaire a moment to regain his bearings enough to enter the apartment, confusion still painted vividly across his face. He wordlessly walked past the armchair to the sofa and sat next to Courfeyrac without acknowledgment.

"I just had a stare-down with Dorian Gray in the hall."

Courfeyrac gasped. "You had a moment with Montparnasse?" Joly made a strangled noise in the armchair, which he and Bossuet were both comfortably crammed into, and Grantaire shrugged.

"I dunno, we just sort of stared at each other for a while and then he nodded and left."

Jehan made an aww’ing sound that seemed a bit out of place in reference to someone so dangerous-looking. “You gained his approval!” they cooed from Courfeyrac’s other side.

Grantaire snorted. "Yeah sure, if you call a minute nod a sign of approval."

"That's about as close as you're gonna get with Montparnasse, my friend." Courfeyrac gave him a couple of hearty thumps on the back.

"I didn't realize he was back in town,” Jehan commented.

"He leaves a lot?"

"Yeah, not sure why, though."

"We think he's an assassin," Bossuet said seriously, and Joly nodded. Grantaire considered it for a second before shrugging in agreement.

Joly and Bossuet stayed for just short of an hour, during which Grantaire found himself chatting with the group in a way that was far more natural than he would have expected. Sure conversation at lunch had flowed well enough, but that was a lunch conversation, those tend to be easier than just sitting around and talking.

“By the way, just as fair warning,” Jehan started after the pair had left, and Courfeyrac whined in dismay. “Hush, it’s not going to ruin the game. Courf put everyone in your contacts under nicknames, so you’ll have to figure out who everyone is.”

Curiosity piqued, Grantaire retrieved his phone from his pocket and opened the contacts. “I’m guessing you’re Flower Prince?”

Jehan smiled proudly, while Grantaire scrolled through some more and snorted. “Gee, I wonder who ‘Sexy Beast winky-face’ could possibly be.” Courfeyrac reclined with his hands behind his head and Jehan playfully smacked him in the chest.

Jolllly, Bossssssssuet, and Chettttta were all self-explanatory, while Sweet Freckled Puppy Boy was clearly Marius. Grantaire saw the contact Fearless Leader and promptly changed it to Apollo. This left Brohorel, Fweee, Pony, and Mom (who Grantaire, remembering Marius’ account of Enjolras’ living situation, assumed was Combeferre).

It wasn’t until much later that he realized he hadn’t even paused at the assumption that he would be involved enough to warrant having all their numbers.

*

Grantaire's dreams were feverish that night, as often were when a situation was becoming too permanent. He was no stranger to it, but it was unusual for it to happen so soon after arriving. While he normally took those dreams as a sign to move on, he elected to ignore them for the time being.

He ate breakfast with both Courfeyrac and Marius that morning, and was introduced to the humorous mountain of a man that was Bahorel when he showed up to bum some coffee off of them.

“Don't you have more important things to do than steal our caffeine?” Courfeyrac complained jokingly. “Like, you know, class?”

Bahorel waved him off. “Eh, it's just law.”

“You _are_ a law student,” Marius pointed out, and Bahorel only shrugged.

While talking with Bahorel was enjoyable, Grantaire’s mind was stuck on the mild anxiety that had been brewing in his gut since he woke up, prompting him to relinquish the pleasurable company in favor of a walk.

He was leaving the building when he realized that he’d left his knapsack behind, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back just yet. Instead, he wandered through the complex web of streets and absorbed the scenery, imprinting images of old cobblestone and new pavement, buildings both ancient and modern. Paris was beautiful, something he’d already known but had never truly experienced for himself. He’d avoided France for the most part in his travels, and he almost regretted that as he watched the city dance around him. Grantaire wasn’t the patriotic sort, but there was still a vague tingling sensation of pride when such beauty was made of the language he knew and the culture he bled.

Then again, that familiarity was why he’d avoided the country in the first place, preferring to lose himself in a place that knew him as little as he knew it. And now he’d come back, only to get wrapped up in a dangerously comfortable lifestyle with dangerously comfortable companions.

But slowly drowning in his own anxieties was no excuse to skip out on his usual system, so he explored until he ended up walking out of a small pawn shop with a guitar case slung over his shoulder. As per tradition, he purchased it with what he called the guitar fund, a small pool of money that he used up in each new city only to resell the instrument before he left.

He couldn’t just bum off of his friends forever (god, they were his _friends_ ), so he found a good spot in a park's plaza and sat on the stone ground against a garden wall, unloading his guitar and leaving the case open in front of him. It took a bit to get it tuned properly, as he’d expected, but the strings were a decent quality so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Soon enough, he was idly strumming various chords for songs that he’d memorized over the years.

Grantaire always played the songs that made an impression on him, but not necessarily the ones that made him happy. Most of the time, he sang in a voice laden with longing and underlying melancholy. According to the so-called-rules of street performing, he would probably make more money if he played upbeat songs. The thing was, though, that Grantaire wasn’t an exceptionally upbeat person. He made enough as it was, anyway. (He was pretty sure some people just felt sorry for him, but hey, cash was cash.)

The sun gradually made its way across the sky as he cycled through an improvised set list, hardly even noticing when his throat was beginning to get sore. A tired voice is nothing when you’re using music as a vice to distract you from a personal crisis. He only stopped during a song mentioning shots of whiskey and lines of cocaine, though not out of choice.

“I hope this song isn’t literal,” came the interruption.

More startled than miffed, Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Even with his hair tousled from the wind and a stiff posture that said 'I’m trying very hard not to be awkward right now,' he was unfairly beautiful.

Trying his damnedest not to stare, Grantaire shrugged casually and began counting the bit of currency he’d accumulated. “Is art ever _really_ literal?”

Enjolras blew air out his nose in what one could charitably call a laugh, and watched as Grantaire placed enough money for a day’s worth of cheap food into his pocket and packed up. “You know, you’d probably make more if you played upbeat songs.”

Grantaire smiled wryly as he hoisted himself up off the ground. “So I’ve heard.” He stood facing the other, taking note of the worn messenger bag over his shoulder and the brick-red leather jacket that tapered to his slim frame. (And honestly, he had no business wearing something like that. Did he have no courtesy for the hearts of those around him?)

“So, what brings you ‘round these parts, Apollo? Protest in the park, giving pamphlets to the young and impressionable?”

“I was taking a walk after my classes,” Enjolras said dryly, unamused by both the nickname and the assumption. “I do actually enjoy activities beyond activism, you know.”

“And I enjoy things beyond drinking, but even then I still sing about it.”

Enjolras sighed, and evidently decided that it’d be best to change the subject. “Have you met everyone yet? I know you haven’t even been to a meeting, but word travels fast in a group like this.”

“Yeah, all but uh,” he pulled out his phone and read off the screen, “Fweee, Mom, and Pony.”

Enjolras breathed out another quiet laugh. “Well, I at least know for sure that Feuilly and Combeferre will be at the meeting.”

“Uh oh, Courfeyrac will be upset that you’ve ruined his game,” Grantaire scolded sarcastically, and Enjolras didn’t look at all surprised that Courfeyrac was involved.

“Considering that he’s already decided to give you everyone’s numbers, I think he’ll be in a good mood for a while now.” At Grantaire’s quizzical expression, Enjolras cleared his throat and shifted his feet. “Les Amis is a bit...” He glanced away as he struggled for words in a way that was far more human than Grantaire would have expected of him. “You’ll see on Friday,” he concluded.

“Well now I’m more lost than I was when this conversation started,” Grantaire mused. Realizing that that sounded a bit passive aggressive, he added, “Not to worry, though, that’s something I’m somewhat accustomed to.” Enjolras looked at him in confusion, and Grantaire swore internally. _Fucking way to go, R, fucking up an almost-proper conversation with Apollo. Nice._

Desperately grasping for an out, Grantaire pointed back in the general direction he’d come from. “I was just supposed to be taking a stroll, so I’d better go before they call a search party. See you.” Not even giving Enjolras a chance to respond, he speed-walked away with strained nonchalance, resisting the temptation to slam his head into a wall all the way. He’d gone out to forget about his distress, not find more in the form of a stupidly attractive and unattainable political activist.

His roommates (plus Bahorel, who still hadn’t left) were indeed close to forming a search party when he returned, but they were quickly distracted by the guitar slung over Grantaire’s shoulder and goaded him into playing something for them. This time, not even music could soothe the vaguely unsettled feeling in his stomach.

*

Friday afternoon found Grantaire lounging in the living room while Jehan carefully brushed black polish onto his fingernails. Courfeyrac's had already been finished (blue with white polka dots) and he was perched on the back of the couch waiting for them to dry, legs arched over Jehan where they lay on their stomach in a mirror to R. They were just finishing up the top coat when the door swung open.

"I'm in love!"

Jehan gasped at Marius' abrupt declaration, hastily finishing their job before shifting their position and resting their head in their hands. "Tell us more!"

Grantaire sat up and turned to see Marius standing just inside the door, looking giddy and dazed. He leaned forward and rested his chin in one hand, elbow on his knee and fingers splayed so as not to disturb the wet nail polish. "Yes, Marius, do tell!" he teased.

"She was beautiful, like an angel walking the earth.” _I know how that is_ , Grantaire thought. “She was entering her classroom, and she looked over and saw me stock-still in the middle of the hallway, just sort of staring. She could have just turned away then, most people probably would, but then she smiled at me... like a burst of light, illuminating my entire world."

Jehan sighed wistfully with a dreamy smile, and Marius dazedly made his way to the recliner, into which he collapsed. "We said hello, but then she had to leave. It was such a short moment, but it's like everything's changed somehow! I have to see her again!"

"Did you remember to tell her your name?" Courfeyrac asked amusedly. Marius froze, before slowly moving to cover his face with his hands, prompting Courfeyrac to cackle loudly.

"Come to think of it, you forgot to tell me your name until midway through our first conversation,” Grantaire mused. “Is this an ongoing problem?" Courfeyrac was absolutely losing his shit at that point, and Jehan was trying to suppress their own amusement. Marius made a muffled wounded sound from behind his hands.

Jehan stood and made their way over to sit on the arm of the recliner and pet Marius' hair soothingly. "There, there," they cooed, laughter still ringing in their tone. "Don't worry, I'm sure you can find her again. You said she was entering a classroom, right?"

Marius dropped his hands from his face abruptly. "Of course! I just have to find out who's in that class!"

Grantaire quirked his brow. "Or you could just wait until the same time a week from now?"

"No, I can't wait that long," Marius shook his head vehemently. "I've already gone my entire life without her; now that I know she's out there, I can't wait any longer. I'll find her, I have to.

“Jehan!” he turned to them and with all the seriousness of a man off to war. “You're a beautiful genius." He got up and pressed a sloppy kiss to the poet's forehead, then rushed out the still open door and slammed it shut behind him. The three remaining stared after him in silence, Jehan being the first to regain themself.

"I should write a sonnet."

*

The three of them met up with Bahorel and Feuilly in front of the building that evening. The ginger half of the arm wrestling duo shook Grantaire’s hand with a calloused palm and firm grip before the five began their stroll through the night air, their easy chatter lit by the street lights above.

“Nice finally meeting you,” he greeted as they walked. Grantaire eyed him skeptically, prompting Feuilly to add, “Word travels fast with these ones.”

Grantaire recalled Enjolras saying the same thing at the park. “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

This time, the Musain had a few other patrons all confined to the booths, as if they knew the other side of the room was about to be commandeered. As their group entered, those who had just arrived instantly mingled with the members who were already present, slotting together perfectly into a single mass. It was as if everyone had their place and fell into it as naturally as breathing, and Grantaire suddenly understood what Enjolras had been struggling to describe.

Jehan strode to one of two occupied tables next to the bar, where Joly and Bossuet had already taken seats. Bossuet immediately tugged the sleeve of his jacket up for Jehan to write and doodle on his arm, and Joly lightheartedly griped about ink poisoning, though he was watching with just as much interest as his partner.

At the next table over sat Combeferre and Enjolras, whom Bahorel fist bumped (enthusiastic on his end, longsufferingly amused on theirs) before plopping into the seat by Joly. Courfeyrac bounced to the second table and ruffled Enjolras' hair before taking a seat next to Combeferre. Feuilly followed and sat on the other side of the table so he was near Bahorel as well, and gave Enjolras a friendly and respectful nod, which was returned in kind. Musichetta leaned over the bar, chatting in between check-ins with her customers.

Both tables had their own conversations going but the streams of dialogue were somehow coinciding seamlessly, with members occasionally pitching in to another conversation or both tables completely joining in on one topic before diverging once more. Grantaire would have thought it impossible for so many people to interact so smoothly without breaking off into totally separate groups, yet they pulled it off effortlessly.

As he ambled toward the bar stools closest to the tables, Grantaire paused at the sight of a familiar girl with dark hair and a sharp smile. He peered at her contemplatively until he remembered the contact name 'Pony,' realization striking him with a breathy laugh. She glanced over at the sound and examined him for only a second before scowling and marching forward to meet him halfway with what was practically a snarl.

"R!" Oh wow, that brought back memories.

Éponine began mercilessly beating on Grantaire's arm, and yeah, that definitely brought back memories. "Hello, 'Ponine!"

She delivered a particularly hard punch at that. "'Hello, 'Ponine?' Nearly two years since I heard from you last and you say _'hello, 'Ponine?'_ "

Grantaire winced. "Sorry about that." He really didn't want to tell her about how he'd impulsively tossed his phone into a river because he felt too attached and it had made his stomach squeeze and his chest feel weighted. Luckily, she didn't ask.

"I half thought that vagrant lifestyle'd killed you, you know."

He smiled sardonically. "Unfortunately for all of us, not quite yet." Éponine slapped his arm again, more gently this time.

"This time you'd better let us all know if you decide to go and fuck off again." Grantaire hummed noncommittally, and Éponine glared until he relented.

"Alright, alright. But for now," he grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around to steer her back to the bar, "we drink! Just like old times, eh, 'Ponine?"

Musichetta already had two beers on the counter for them, for which Grantaire thanked her. He grabbed one and popped the cap off against the bar edge then held it out toward Éponine, who did the same. "To reconnections! The three sisters of Fate have brought us together once more!"

"Hear, hear!”

They clinked the necks of their bottles and each took a long pull, Grantaire chugging his and draining it completely before gesturing for another. He glanced over to see that Enjolras’ attention had been drawn to all the commotion. Grantaire nodded and subtly raised his second drink to him with a cheeky smirk, and Enjolras furrowed his brow pensively before returning to his own conversation.

Meanwhile at the closer table, Joly inquired, “Wait, you two know each other?”

"Grantaire came through my old town a few years back," Éponine explained. Bossuet looked delightfully astounded, probably awed by the fact that such good luck could actually exist in the world.

"Holy shit, what are the odds of that?" Bahorel marveled, hand loosely wrapped around a half-empty gin and tonic.

Jehan, ever the romantic, looked ecstatic. "That's amazing! It's like you were meant to be here with us!" Grantaire smiled lopsidedly and took a sip of his beer, if only to cover up the odd mixture of warmth and anxiety that the notion brought him.

A distraction came with wonderful timing as Marius chose that moment to drag himself into the café and collapse onto the stool next to Éponine, who raised an eyebrow at his sullen sigh.

"Any luck?" Grantaire asked. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer to that, but anything was good enough to get him away from the direction that last conversation was headed in.

Marius only groaned, and Joly looked both interested and mildly concerned. “Are you okay? You look... not okay.”

"Not really," he sighed dejectedly. "I’m trying to find someone, but it turns out class rosters aren’t available to the public, even if you _are_ a fellow student and even if it _is_ of utmost importance."

Courfeyrac piped up from the other table. "Did you at least find out what class it was?"

Marius nodded. "M. Myriel's feminism in literature class, Fridays at two."

Éponine perked up a bit and _oh no_ , Grantaire had a feeling he knew what that fond look meant. His heart was already breaking for her. "I'm in that class," she offered.

Marius' eyes widened, his previously downcast demeanor shed off instantly. "Oh my god, you are, aren’t you? Éponine, I need your help." Jehan seemed to recognize what was happening at that point and was frantically looking between the impending train crash and Grantaire, who shrugged helplessly. "There's someone I have to find. She’s petite, with blonde hair that falls down to her chest in gentle waves, sparkling pale blue eyes, a laugh like bells, and the kindest smile you've ever seen."

Éponine tried not to look crestfallen, and Grantaire winced internally while Jehan sent her a sympathetic look before returning to scribbling on Bossuet's arm. "Sounds like Cosette," she supplied weakly, helpful to the end. She was clearly too good for the world—certainly too good for Marius, the blind but horribly good-intentioned moron.

The aforementioned moron smiled as if everything he could ever want in the world had just been handed to him on a silver platter. "Cosette," he echoed wistfully.

"Cosette," Grantaire repeated thoughtfully, because he thought he recognized that name, especially coming from Éponine's lips... _Oh_.

Grantaire startled at his own epiphany and turned to Éponine. "Isn't that...?" She nodded wordlessly, and Grantaire whispered an incredulous sort of laugh and muttered, "Small world."

M. and Mme. Thénardier had been the loathsome sort to take in foster kids in pursuit of the government's payment. They were despicable in the treatment of children both orphaned and of their own blood, but Cosette had been lucky enough to be adopted and whisked away. Éponine and Gavroche Thénardier didn't escape until the criminal pair were discovered and arrested, at which point the younger was placed in the very system his parents had abused.

"What's Gavroche up to these days, anyway?" Grantaire asked in the hopes of changing the subject.

Grateful for the out, Éponine responded, "Being a public menace." A smile sneaked onto her face as she continued. "But he's a public menace under my custody."

At that, Grantaire cheered and lifted his drink in the air. "Look at that, knew you could manage it!"

She raised her drink as well, before pointing the neck of the bottle toward the farther table where the others looked to be talking over plans or issues or something equally serious, Bahorel leaning back in his chair to properly listen in.

"It's all thanks to that one, you know."

Grantaire followed her gesture, and it was pretty clear who his sights would immediately be drawn to (and he was a bit unsettled by the thought that Éponine might have figured it out that quickly. They'd only been in the same room for fifteen minutes for christ's sake). "Who, Fearless Revolutionary 1, 2, 3, or 4?"

Éponine looked unamused, conveying that she knew that he knew exactly who she was referring to. He relented and half-sighed, half-grumbled, "Yeah, 'course it would be Apollo." She watched him expectantly. "What? He's an idealistic fool, but he's also the only one who can somehow turn nearly everyone around him into equally idealistic fools." _Nearly_ everyone because Grantaire may have been ensnared by the leader's magic, but he hadn't fallen to that level of wide-eyed hopefulness, nor would he ever.

Éponine made a thoughtful noise and went to take a sip at her drink, snarking from behind the rim, "Whatever you say, Hyacinth."

Grantaire sputtered, and Enjolras blessedly chose that moment to call the meeting to order. The rowdy group hushed instantly, all attention on the charismatic leader who stood before them, his hands braced on the table and intent eyes sweeping over the group.

“The newspaper piece is about finished, it should be published by the end of next week,” he began, and Jehan smiled with satisfaction. “In the meantime, plans for the rally are coming together nicely. We’ve found a few possible locations that are obtrusive enough to be noticed but not so much as to call for immediate police interference, though we are continuing to look into other options.”

Grantaire—who was fairly lost because rallies? _Police interference?—_ lazily raised a hand. “Rally?”

Judging by his expression, Enjolras had forgotten that Grantaire didn’t know what was going on. Combeferre cleared his throat to speak instead. “We’ve been organizing a protest against the government’s treatment of refugees.”

Grantaire was taken aback for a moment by the abrupt escalation from It’s Okay To Be Gay! to the fucking _refugee crisis_. Then again, he didn’t really expect any less from Enjolras.

Regaining himself, he nodded slowly at the information. “Hasn’t that been happening for a while, though? Like, everywhere?”

Enjolras tensed familiarly, his tone cold. Grantaire had hardly even said anything yet, but it was as if Enjolras had developed an almost Pavlovian response to his comments “The fact that it’s widespread doesn’t change that it’s inhumane and barbaric, and has gone on plenty long enough.”

Only giving Enjolras a brief glance, Combeferre continued with his explanation. “It’s shaping up to be one of our larger endeavors, so we’re having to put a lot of planning into it, including finding a suitable venue. While we have to do that for every event, this one’s been proving to be a bit more complicated due to the sheer size; it has to be able to hold the expected turnout, but also be public and noticeable. Bonus points if it’s symbolic or historically significant.”

“Location is always a bit tricky,” Courfeyrac added. “You’ve got to get a place that’s too obvious for people to ignore, but then if it’s so in the way that they deem it a public disturbance, they’ll send in the riot police before you even get started.”

“You mean the same riot police who fucked up said refugees just last month, and will continue to do so?” Grantaire questioned skeptically.

Enjolras displayed the briefest flicker of surprise at the fact that Grantaire was actually aware of the matter, giving R a vague sense of smug accomplishment, before schooling his expression. “The very same,” he responded icily, his intent to challenge them clear as day. Grantaire made a face at the obvious self-sacrifice.

“So you're just going to martyr yourself and hope it works?”

“We aren't simply sacrificing ourselves, we're taking a stand. If enough people rise, they'll have to listen. This isn't a plan to become martyrs, and chances are it won't even come to that.”

“And if it does?”

Enjolras' anger flared, indignant and bold. “Then we'll be willing to do what's necessary. Are you done?” he questioned hotly, rising to the taunts so that his marble-faced front melted away. Grantaire held his hands up in surrender, motioning for him to go on.

The heat remained as he continued the discussion, transferring into a resentment toward the issue itself. He addressed the conditions in refugee camps and the utter dismissal of the matter, working himself up as he went and building upon other members’ proposals of ways to address different topics. Grantaire didn’t speak for the rest of the meeting, opting instead to simply watch, listen, and drink.

The first time Grantaire saw Enjolras speak, he was indignant and willful, but controlled and deliberate in every word and movement with carefully orchestrated delivery. This time however, as he continued to feed his own flame, his wrath and passion were at the forefront. His face had grown sharp, his eyes dangerous and glinting as he paced and gestured broadly. The sparks of rebellion had landed on kindling and grown into a wildfire, his already intense charisma having gained an almost feral quality. In that state of godlike determination, Grantaire felt that Enjolras could bend the entire world to his will.

They’d accumulated several good ideas for the rally by the time the meeting adjourned. Enjolras left with Combeferre, still slightly fuming but satisfied with what they’d accomplished, while the rest elected to stay at the Musain for a little while longer. Grantaire seemed to be the only one who wasn’t left somewhat shell-shocked, finishing off his third beer while everyone else took a moment to contemplate in silence. It was Feuilly who finally broke it.

“I have _never_ seen him worked up like that.”

Courfeyrac shook his head incredulously. “I don’t think I’ve seen that particular brand of fury on him either, and I’ve known him since high school.”

“And I thought you got him mad last time...” Marius remarked to Grantaire, who only shrugged languidly and ignored the look that Éponine was giving him.

“It's like you took debate mode and rally mode and mashed them into a bomb. How did you even do that?” Bossuet asked with awed curiosity.

Grantaire shrugged again, trying to get to the last remains of his drink before he set the empty bottle on the bar. “Perhaps I have a gift for it,” he said blithely, to which Bahorel laughed and raised his glass.

Though he ached at irking Enjolras so terribly he'd probably end up unable to stand him, Grantaire also found himself satisfied at having instigated such beautiful, righteous anger. It seemed he'd found his calling, and he knew he would continue poking and prodding and pushing all the right buttons until Enjolras was unstoppable.

As those around him returned to their chatter, Grantaire found himself pondering over what had been alluded to in the park the previous afternoon. While Les Amis de l'ABC was supposedly an open organization, the group of friends itself was bound together in such a way that it was practically impossible to infiltrate. Each person had their own role—the Romantic, the lighthearted, the brazen protector, the steady support—a cog to keep their ragtag machine of rebels and hopefuls running smoothly. Courfeyrac was their heart, gluing everyone together; Combeferre their guide, keeping them on track; Enjolras, their leader, their chief, with a voice that would lead them all out of the dark.

The team was carefully pieced together, but Grantaire had somehow slipped into a crack and become the token cynic, their devil's advocate, starting fires just to watch them burn. He fell into their motley gang of revolutionaries with no way out.

The thing was, though, the most chilling and startling part, was that he wasn't sure he _wanted_ a way out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was actually the song that kind of got the fic started. Les Amis were the first thing that came to mind when I first heard it, and then a bunch of other songs reminded me of E and/or R, that somehow developed into this whole monstrosity.
> 
> The riot police/refugee incident mentioned happened in August of 2016, while the beginning of this fic takes place near the end of September. So to them, it's still somewhat fresh news.


	3. Love Ire & Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inner turmoil of an anarchist.

“Productive meeting,” Combeferre commented lightly as Enjolras pored over a history textbook on the couch.

Neither of them had breached the topic at all since they left the café, Combeferre apparently having chosen to let Enjolras simmer down first. They’d both been silent for the entire trip home, as they tended to be when Enjolras was tense and Combeferre was patiently waiting for him to calm himself.

Enjolras didn’t respond, but Combeferre only sat down in their armchair with a cup of tea and watched him patiently. Only when Enjolras realized that he’d been staring at the same paragraph for a good three minutes did he succumb to the unspoken question of _what the hell was that_.

“I don’t even know,” he admitted in distress, suddenly slamming his book shut and dropping it on the cushion beside him. “He just... There’s something about the way he says things, and I...” Enjolras made a frustrated noise and ran his hands through his hair before scrubbing them down his face. “You should have heard him when I first met him. It’s not even that he disagrees with us, it's like he’s just given up. He’s not _against_ change, he just doesn’t believe that it’s possible! I’ve never met someone so pessimistically compliant!”

Combeferre contemplated this for a moment. “So do you want to change him?” Enjolras shook his head, eyes trained on the coffee table in thought.

“No,” he answered solidly, because even he knew that you can’t forcibly change a human being. “I want to show him.” He clenched his fists where they rested on his thighs, and Combeferre nodded at the underlying meaning.

_I want to show everybody._

*

Enjolras was glad that he didn’t have class the next day because he hardly slept at all, his mind plagued with thoughts of protest and revolution and, reluctantly, Grantaire.

It was difficult for him to understand how someone who was clearly discontent with the state of the world could just give up on it completely. It was true that society had too many problems to count, but for Enjolras, that only served to fuel his drive for change. Meanwhile, it was as if Grantaire had been so discouraged by it that he saw no point in even trying. It was almost sad. It _would_ be kind of sad if he weren’t so damn adamant and argumentative about it.

His inability to sleep had him out of bed before Combeferre for once, setting breakfast on the table when the other came out of his room. Combeferre sat across from him, drinking his coffee gratefully and taking a bite of toast.

“I do regret that I didn’t get the chance to properly introduce myself,” he mentioned, knowing that Enjolras would know exactly who he was referring to. “I was planning on doing it after the meeting, but...” He gave him a meaningful look.

“Just text him,” Enjolras absentmindedly suggested as he scrolled through the news feed on his phone. “Courfeyrac sent out that mass text with his number for a reason.” He remembered then that he, too, had Grantaire’s contact information, and that Grantaire had his. That felt odd to him for some reason, so he chose to repress it, along with all other thoughts pertaining to the skeptic for the rest of the weekend.

For the most part, he was successful, avoiding thinking about Grantaire for even a moment as he threw himself into his work. He had two papers to write and a rally to plan, and no time to be pondering over Marius and Courfeyrac’s new temporary roommate.

His success came to a halt, however, at his Monday political science lecture. Throughout the entire class, Marius was intermittently throwing cautious glances towards Enjolras as if he was afraid he’d explode. He only relaxed when the lecture ended and Enjolras offered “Lunch?” as per their usual Monday arrangement.

The two strolled to the student cafeteria as Enjolras listened to Marius chatter on about the “love of his life.” On Saturday, Éponine had led him to where the mysterious girl lived, because she and her brother could find practically anyone in Paris. Enjolras almost commented on how awkwardly standing in the rain outside the home of a person he’d had a “moment” with was not only creepy but could possibly warrant a call to the police, but the girl, Cosette, had recognized him and was apparently just as much of a lovestruck romantic as he. He’d been invited inside to dry off, had a slightly uncomfortable conversation with her intimidating father (who had of course warmed up to him, because it seemed that no one could resist the innocent charm of Marius Pontmercy), and asked her to go out on a proper date with him the next day.

“I’ve been through that park a hundred times but it was so _different_ with her there. It’s like there’s a new beauty in my world now that she’s in it,” he rambled dreamily as Enjolras ate his salad and half-listened to his friend’s romantic blathering. While he didn’t particularly care about romance or love stories, he did care about his friends, and that included Marius, even on the many occasions that he was being somewhat ridiculous. Not to mention this was a welcome distraction from thinking about a certain someone.

“Oh and during our walk, we came across Grantaire with his guitar!” _Damn it._ “He was street performing, which I actually didn’t know he does but he was really quite good. He played Cosette and me a love song and she thought it was so wonderful that she gave him half the money in her wallet and absolutely _insisted_ that he take it. Wasn’t that kind of her? Then Grantaire suggested she come by the apartment for dinner, and did you know that Grantaire can cook? Because he’s a _really_ good cook. And—”

Marius cut himself off then, only just noticing that Enjolras had completely stilled when Grantaire was mentioned. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Anyway, you should meet her sometime.”

Enjolras, who was now subconsciously compiling a list of things he knew about Grantaire and trying to make sense of it, nodded and finished his salad.

*

The group had decided to all go out for lunch together at a casual local restaurant the next Sunday, taking up the entire back area that Courfeyrac had charmed the owner into reserving for them. As they ate and mingled, Enjolras took the opportunity to observe Grantaire’s behavior outside of the Musain. His joining had seemed to somewhat alter the dynamic of Les Amis, and frankly, Enjolras remained unsure of how he felt about it.

On one hand, his friends were all very fond of Grantaire. He’d managed to fit in with them effortlessly—joking with Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel; talking about poetry and life with Jehan while verses were scrawled onto his arms; discussing literature with Chetta and art with Feuilly. He lived harmoniously with Courfeyrac and Marius (if Courf’s anecdotes were anything to go by), and he already happened to be friends with Éponine. Enjolras even caught Combeferre smiling and chuckling at his phone because he was “talking to Grantaire about the Iliad.”

He even got along with Gavroche, who had decided to attend their outing and seemed subtly excited to see him. Grantaire had questioned the boy’s involvement with the group at first, to which Gavroche said, “I just hang around to make sure you all don’t get killed. Just like old times, eh, R?” Enjolras didn’t know what that referred to and wasn’t sure that he particularly wanted to.

Enjolras’ opinion on the matter aside, his friends were happy. On the other hand though, Grantaire was cynical, seemed to almost always have alcohol on his breath and in his veins, and contradicted Enjolras as if it was his mission in life. And regardless of what Combeferre liked to imply, Enjolras did _not_ enjoy debating with Grantaire. He was _not_ glad that Grantaire had moved on from his initial simple goading and had started making proper arguments, nor was there a small part of him that looked forward to them.

He did, however, have to admit that there were advantages to what Grantaire brought out in him. Meetings had become more productive, all of the members responding favorably to Enjolras’ less controlled but more outwardly impassioned demeanor. It was as if Grantaire was grabbing at the fervor that he normally kept in check and forcibly dragging it to the surface for all to see.

As he absentmindedly picked at his food, he was forced out of his thoughts when the very subject of them sunk into a vacant seat beside him.

“Apollo!” Grantaire greeted, and Enjolras raised a single brow in acknowledgment. “Your golden voice has been rather mute today. Some wine?”

Enjolras peered at him. “It’s one in the afternoon.” Grantaire only shrugged and took a pull of his own drink, Enjolras watching confoundedly. “Are you _always_ drunk?”

Behind Grantaire, Courfeyrac cringed exasperatedly and buried his face in his hands while Gavroche pat his back and Jehan leaned against him with a sigh. Though Enjolras was a bit curious as to what that was about, he kept his attention on the man in question.

Grantaire looked thrown off for a brief moment, but his usual sardonic smile returned just as quickly. “Not always drunk, because that takes a good bit for me nowadays,” he responded in a tone that somehow sounded both sarcastic and legitimate. “Always drinking, on the other hand...”

Enjolras inspected Grantaire’s ironic expression, but he wasn’t really sure what it was he was looking for—maybe a crack in his disposition, some semblance of truth. But Grantaire only stared back.

Enjolras sighed and turned away.

*

The following Tuesday meeting was brisk and to the point, making out some more definite plans for the upcoming demonstration before Enjolras (and Combeferre) hurried home to work. With the rally fast-approaching, he spent the next few days hidden away in his home, feverishly writing and rewriting his speech, dedicating himself for hours at a time as he silently thanked the universe for Microsoft Word and its gift of letting him keep an eye on the page count to make sure he didn’t go overboard again. (He actually preferred to write by hand, but a keyboard was required for his recording of words to keep up with his brain’s production of them.)

As he worked, he recognized what Combeferre had meant when he implied that Grantaire’s presence could be a good thing. For each idea he wrote out, his mind conjured up laughing blue-green eyes and a solid argument, allowing him to disprove them in his speech before they could ever be debated.

Along with that argumentative imagery came motivation in a form that Enjolras never would have expected to find effective: the vivid image of those same oceanic eyes alight with flame, bitter doubt drowned out by bright hope. The daydream grew from there into Grantaire standing by his side, smiling at him, holding his—

He suddenly realized that he’d stopped typing mid-word, the cursor having been blinking impatiently for several minutes. Perhaps it was time to take a break from writing. He still had to plan out everyone’s roles, anyway.

Bahorel and Feuilly would arrive at the venue beforehand to make sure that everything was in order and that the police hadn’t been tipped off and were already present with their riot gear at the ready. While it wasn’t expected to be an issue, it was better safe than sorry.

Joly would park the get-away van in a hidden spot nearby and have it stocked with basic first aid, while Musichetta would remain at the café Musain with more medical supplies, just in case.

Gavroche would keep an ear open amongst his questionable social circle as usual, and he and Éponine would act as lookouts during the protest itself. (Éponine remained somewhat wary of her brother’s involvement with Les Amis, but they all knew realistically that no one could stop him, and Enjolras was never one to turn down a volunteer.)

Beyond that, the members were all to spread the word in their usual fashion by handing out and posting notices in designated areas around their homes, workplaces, and universities. When he got to deciding on Grantaire’s assignment, though, he hesitated.

“You don’t trust him?” Combeferre inquired as they discussed the matter in the living room. He skimmed through the newest speech draft while Enjolras greedily inhaled coffee, its steam slightly fogging the glasses that sat on his face during late nights and work sprints that left him unwilling to bother with contacts.

He pulled the empty mug away from his lips with a sigh. “It’s not that I don’t trust him. I’m just concerned that he won’t take it seriously.”

Combeferre paused in thought, then said, “Do you remember early on when you were concerned about Courfeyrac taking the cause seriously?” Enjolras’ remembrance was evidenced by a subtle smile. “And what did he do?”

Enjolras’ smile grew fondly. “He organized a surprise gay rights walkout for my birthday and convinced over half the school to participate.” Combeferre nodded with his 'I told you so' face, but Enjolras shook his head. “But I already _knew_ Courfeyrac,” he pointed out. “Grantaire is... an enigma.”

And that was what bothered Enjolras the most. Grantaire had shown up in their lives out of the blue with two bags and a sharp tongue, fresh off a train from god knows where. Enjolras had initially assumed that he was on vacation, which wasn’t wholly unreasonable since they were in Paris. But the second time he saw Grantaire, he was playing a guitar he hadn’t had before and singing a sad-sounding song about unhealthy vices in a surprisingly clear voice and surprisingly good English while the occasional passerby tossed him pocket money.

He knew that Grantaire had a knapsack that he almost always carried, and that it held a sketchbook that he’d had out once before a meeting but immediately put away when he saw Enjolras watching him. He knew from Courfeyrac that he had a few paintings of the Parisian view, and that he’d given Jehan one that was “all flowery and nice.” (Courfeyrac’s description, not his.) Marius had told him that he could cook, Jehan said that he liked poetry, Bahorel mentioned that he was surprisingly light on his feet. He had little facts here and there, but Grantaire himself was a mystery.

Grantaire the artist, Grantaire the musician, Grantaire the cook; Grantaire who liked Robert Southey, Grantaire who drank in excess, Grantaire who had the ability to get under Enjolras’ skin like no one else and practiced it at every given chance. Grantaire who spoke as if he’d given up, yet still came to every meeting and hung on to every word. Grantaire the mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a paint-speckled package of skepticism.

Combeferre waited, seeming to recognize that Enjolras had a train of thought going and allowing him to finish it before continuing. “But you _can_ know him,” he pointed out after a while. “You just have to wait and learn. In the meantime, he’s attending these meetings for a reason.”

Enjolras mulled over that before nodding slowly. “I’ll assign him to the park he plays in,” he concluded, and Combeferre smiled approvingly.

“Good. Now eat before you start writing again and get so involved that you can’t step away,” he ordered good-naturedly. “Unless your goal here is apocarteresis, in which case we have a whole other set of problems on our hands.”

*

Friday evening, Enjolras went over an outline of what he’d written so far to get some input from the group. Jehan advised certain wordings here and there, while Feuilly and Courfeyrac suggested changing the order of a few topics. Grantaire pulled him into a couple of debates, because while Imaginary Grantaire had helped him flesh things out, Real Grantaire still had some points to make.

Eventually Combeferre began subtly tapping his watch, motioning for Enjolras to wrap things up so they could get on to the second order of business.

“Alright, that’s enough critique for tonight. Thank you for the input, I’ll keep all of it in mind while I make the next draft. Now, our final order of business...” He pulled a few stacks of business cards out of his messenger bag along with sheets of paper that listed everyone’s areas, and Bahorel whooped.

“Fuck yeah, ready to serve!”

Enjolras made a bemused face at the enthusiasm as Courfeyrac began passing out the materials. “Besides handing out and posting cards in your designated locations, a few of you will have individualized roles at the rally itself...” He explained the plan to everyone as Bahorel fist bumped Feuilly, Joly muttered something about designated driving, and Gavroche, who had come along when he heard there would be planning and assignments, smiled smugly at his sister, who roughly poked his forehead in retaliation.

“Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, flipping through the cards curiously. “Don’t people typically use flyers to advertise events like this? You know, things that’ll actually get people’s attention.”

“While it’s true that flyers and posters can attract more participants, they can also attract trouble,” Enjolras explained resolutely. “It’s best to keep things on the down-low as much as we can.”

To his surprise, Grantaire’s only response was, “Huh,” and a nod of acceptance. Everyone else stayed silent for a moment longer as if they were waiting for the impending argument, but Grantaire only put his cards and copy of the list away in his knapsack.

Even after the meeting was over and they were all just sitting around chatting, the only thing Grantaire said regarding the subject was that the cards were an interesting idea and the quotes centered on them were a nice touch. “Bringing focus to the cause and then throwing in the details as a sort of afterthought,” he noted appreciatively. “Pretty decent design, actually.”

Enjolras went home feeling a little lighter that evening. Perhaps their skeptic was coming around after all.

*

He was wrong.

Grantaire was unusually quiet during Tuesday’s meeting, a fact that may have struck Enjolras as somewhat positive if not for the other’s intense focus on his frequently-refilled glass. It wasn’t until they neared the end of the meeting that he finally spoke up.

“Alright, chief,” Grantaire jeered from the bar, “what comes after this, then? What’s the _next cause_?”

Trying to turn a blind eye toward the attitude, Enjolras answered, “We typically hold a vote with suggestions from everyone on what we should focus on next. One idea that we’ve been keeping in mind is shining some light on Clichy-sous-Bois, bringing the unrest and poverty to the public eye.”

Grantaire released a puff of air in a sardonic chuckle. “Yeah, ‘cause that’ll help about as much as all this...”

Call him biased, but Enjolras was fairly certain that Grantaire was even more inebriated than usual. Rather than encouraging him to brush it off as drunken antics, that thought only served to make him more aggravated, bristling as his fists clenched by his sides.

“You know, with the way you were praising our methods last week, I had actually thought you were starting to come around.” He shook his head with a dry, scornful laugh, ignoring the warning glance from Combeferre and the apprehensive look from Courfeyrac. “How could I have been so foolish?”

“I can appreciate an idea without subscribing to your cause completely, you know,” Grantaire argued. “It’s not as if I just blindly disagree with everything that comes out of your pretty mouth.”

Enjolras tensed his jaw, hackles raised. He was vaguely aware that this was becoming a personal argument, and that they should both quit while they were ahead. He'd always been against bringing personal conflicts into ABC matters, but now he was urged on by the stress from the rally, built up frustration toward Grantaire's heckling, and the way his ink-black hair bounced with every broad gesture (because today of all days he chose not to wear that ratty crimson beanie, but his wildly animated curls wouldn’t distract Enjolras from the matter at hand).

“Is that so,” he responded, trying to keep his voice from growing to a yell. “Then what _are_ you doing, exactly?”

“I’m being realistic.”

“No, Grantaire, you’re being negative!”

“Yes, because life tends to be,” Grantaire countered with a strained laugh in his voice, sharp and caustic. “Good intentions don’t magically yield good results, not for a group of students,” _and Feuilly and Musichetta,_ Enjolras thought bitterly, “who are trying to fix the world by waving signs around at politicians who don’t give a shit! Not even if those students are lead by Apollo himself.”

The rest of the group looked between the two of them intermittently with varying levels of shock, exasperation, and anxiety (though that last one was mainly Joly). Enjolras could only look at Grantaire as his own frustration, curiosity, and whatever the hell else he felt towards him mixed into a tangle of blind anger that reached almost Gordian proportions.

“How can you be so adverse to trying to make a difference when you clearly don’t like the way things are?” Enjolras implored. “Why do you just sit in the corner and drink yourself into oblivion?!”

“Because the world is _shit_.”

For possibly the first time in any of their debates and arguments, Grantaire had let what seemed to be his genuine feelings toward the matter leak in. His voice wasn’t especially raised, but behind his jaded bitterness, Enjolras thought he could see a hint of desperate anger that he didn’t quite know what to make of. Part of him felt like they were going too far; a louder part didn’t care.

“The world is terrible,” Grantaire continued with a grim and almost pained edge to his voice. “We fight and harm; Eris and Ares feed off of this loathsome planet in an endless feast of our own treachery. People are disgusting and awful to each other, and it never stops because it’s always been that way, that's just how humanity is.

“This fight of yours is like that of the Hoedenings, endless and pointless and devastating. Any problem you manage to solve will only return later on, because that's fucking life. It's cold and cruel, and it doesn't give a shit about idealists like you.” Grantaire’s hand was shaking slightly around his bottle, but his eye contact remained steady.

Enjolras only stared for a few long breaths. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, though not at all weakened.

“You’re right.”

He paused, the entire café in stunned silence as shock (and fear?) flickered across Grantaire’s face. Enjolras had lost that chaotic anger, its knot sliced open to reveal something else. What filled him now was burning with intent, a screaming desperation to understand and be understood.

“The world is a mess,” he continued. “People suffer constantly. Our ideals are crushed by a corrupt government on a regular basis. Older generations are leaving us with a complete wreck and seem determined to prevent us from doing anything about it.” He paused once more and glanced around the room at his friends before settling back on Grantaire.

“The world is an awful mess, but we're fighting anyway because we _might as fucking well._ If this is merely a sinking ship that we are all trapped on, then we may as well shout and scream and build a _goddamned barricade_ , because it’s far better than drowning quietly.

“Even if any problem we solve is fated to reappear as you say, then at least there was a day where we fought and won. And we can do that with or without you.”

After a long and horrible stretch of silence, Grantaire stood slowly, the previous hint of bitter emotion gone. Now he only eyed at Enjolras with a look he couldn't name, before turning around and walking out.

Enjolras fell into his chair, suddenly weary and emotionally overwhelmed, and glanced around to see everyone watching him or the door with a mixture of awe and concern. He looked to Éponine who responded with a single nod, already pulling her phone out.

Enjolras stared pensively at the door through which Grantaire had exited, and the café remained silent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Enjolras' POV feels so wildly different from Grantaire's, and while my sarcastic ass certainly enjoys writing droll narration, I do find it kind of refreshing to view everything with Enjolras blunt attitude.
> 
> Enj is in his third year of university, while Marius (and Jehan and Éponine) are in their second, making Enjolras the third youngest (Éponine is older, she just started a little later). I really love the idea of Enjolras being one of the youngest, but everyone always forgets that with how much his presence makes up for it. Sometimes he kind of tries to overcompensate though, which is when he starts working way too hard and 'Ferre and Courf have to get him to chill a bit.
> 
> Regarding the chapter summary, Enj technically isn't an anarchist, he's more of a libertarian socialist with very heavy anti-authoritarian tendencies (kind of modeled after myself ngl). Anarchist is catchier though, and it's often used interchangeably.


	4. Once We Were Anarchists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's lament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for described death of a child/teen.

Grantaire was just far enough away for the Musain to be out of sight when his phone vibrated with a text from Éponine.

 

> _are you safe?_

 

Not “are you okay” because she knew him better than that, but “are you safe, do I need to drag you out of a gutter somewhere?” He tapped out a response.

 

> _just need to ruminate for a bit._

 

Once it was sent, he turned his phone off so as not to be disturbed during said rumination, then continued down the street and away from Les Amis.

Tonight had been unfortunate. The entire situation he’d been in since his arrival in Paris was a bit unfortunate. Actually, if he really thought about it, his whole goddamn existence was kind of unfortunate in itself. Grantaire stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed, sobered by both the air that grew ever-cooler with autumn's progression and his own miasma of disappointment—disappointment in himself, in his life, in his flask for being empty.

It’d been dry for several days now. Grantaire had gotten careless and run a bit low on funds, left only with what Cosette had given him in the park, and spending her generosity on booze just felt wrong. But being totally sober for more than a day was unpleasant at best, the melancholic dread that he normally drowned weighing down on his shoulders until he crumbled. He’d made a little more money in the park that day, and being at the meeting with the bar _right there_ had made the familiar burn down his throat and warmth spreading through his limbs impossible to resist. Not to mention Enjolras, filling him with a mess of feelings just by fucking existing.

Grantaire kicked a rock across the pavement, wishing he could kick himself instead. He wished he could beat the shit out of himself for letting Enjolras affect him so strongly when he was merely a blip on the leader’s radar. Enjolras with his beautiful voice that preached pure ideals, untainted by a dark world. Enjolras with the subtle smiles at his friends and bright eyes that caught aflame.

He was Apollo, as bright as the sun and killer as the plague. But to Grantaire, he was also Spes, the deity of hope, shining with something Grantaire himself had lost long ago, now just out of his grasp. He’d already hated whatever cosmic forces may be, but now he was almost certain that the universe had it out for him specifically. Putting a god like Enjolras in the face of a man who didn't know how to believe was simply cruel.

And Grantaire had one way of dealing with cruelty and the resulting distress: drinking. But drinking more than usual had the unfortunate side effect of an absent brain-to-mouth filter, his loosened tongue eager to taunt and reveal.

Thinking logically, he shouldn’t have said anything. Grantaire was, in fact, painfully aware that he shouldn’t have said anything. But he just couldn’t let it go, because Grantaire didn’t let things go. No, Grantaire was a vindictive little shit, and now he’d gone and fucked everything up.

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, Grantaire hung his head back and groaned, but he was abruptly cut off when he heard a pleasant voice behind him.

“Grantaire?”

He whirled around to see Cosette, lit beneath the streetlamp like a concerned little angel in a lilac coat. Sweet, sweet Cosette, who didn’t deserve to witness Grantaire in the midst of a minor meltdown.

“Are you alright?” she asked with a curious head tilt, and Grantaire suddenly realized that he hadn’t said anything.

“Oh, um,” he shifted and cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah I’m... yeah.”

Cosette, who could read anyone like a book (and, Grantaire realized, knew what direction Marius and Courfeyrac’s apartment was in and that he’d been going the opposite), smiled gently. “You know, I was just heading home and I have some lovely new tea, if you don’t have anywhere else to be right now.”

Grantaire gripped the straps of his knapsack nervously. “I don’t want to impose,” he said, but he really didn’t want to go back and face any of Les Amis either.

Smile still present, Cosette shook her head, tendrils of flaxen hair sparkling in the yellow light. “It’s really no bother. Papa is out on business anyway, so you don’t even have to worry about him interrogating you,” she joked, and Grantaire's lips quirked up to one side in spite of himself.

“Thanks,” he consented. Cosette's smile widened, and she caught up to him so they could walk side-by-side.

As they walked, Grantaire following Cosette’s lead, he wondered what the hell Paris had done to him. In the past when he had nowhere to go, he took it to mean he had _anywhere_ to go. He'd sleep in a secluded spot in a park, or a hostel if he had the money, and not have a single worry about it. It was as if just a few weeks of hospitality had softened him, made him feel as if he actually had a...

“You’re thinking awfully loud.”

He startled out of his thoughts and turned his head to see Cosette peering up at him curiously, pale eyes glittering with starlight. Grantaire shifted his eyes to the ground without saying anything, and was relieved when she didn’t push it. Instead, she talked about her evening; how she knew the librarian and was able to stay past closing to do some reading for her mythology class, about how she wasn’t sure _why_ she had enrolled in a mythology class when she was studying nursing, but enjoyed it nonetheless.

Grantaire was lured into the conversation (which was really just a monologue up until then) as they boarded the Métro, when Cosette mentioned finding love in Greek mythology to often be questionable at best. His ensuing rambling about the gods and their many imperfections brought them all the way to Cosette’s lovely townhouse, which had flowers on the windowsills and plush carpets and smelled of lavender and clean linen. She listened raptly as she slipped her shoes off, and Grantaire followed her into the kitchen as he started on the better relationships of Greek mythology.

“See, a lot of the best ones are either subtextual or just not really talked about,” he asserted as Cosette brewed her aromatic tea (with an honest to god _tea_ set), leaning on the cream granite counter top a few feet away from her. “Orestes and Pylades, for example. Achilles and Patroclus, now there's a tragedy. Or Apollo and...”

He trailed off, excitement dying instantly, and Cosette smiled with sympathy as she set out two teacups on little saucers and took a seat in the cozy breakfast nook. “Would you like to talk about it?” she offered, somehow managing to sound not at all condescending.

Grantaire sat across from her and considered it, taking a careful sip of tea (which was deliciously bright and flowery) and chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Do you know Enjolras?” he asked finally, eyes on the wooden table. Maybe it could be nice to talk to an impartial party.

“Not personally, but Marius has talked about him quite a bit.” Grantaire nodded slowly, and she added, “I know that he’s bold and intense, and works very hard for the things he believes in.”

Grantaire breathed out slowly, all the joviality he so often wore shedding away to reveal a deep melancholy. “That and more,” he confirmed softly. Cosette took a sip of her tea, subtly and gently motioning for him to continue. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to pour his fucking heart out.

“He’s fucking incredible,” he started, because where does one even begin in describing Enjolras? “The first time I saw him, the first time I _heard_ him, it was like... Like the world was always dark, and then suddenly he was there—a beacon, bright and lighting everything around him. Bright enough to hurt my eyes, but so beautiful I could never bear to look away. I'd rather let him blind me than take my eyes off of him for one second.” He paused, pressing his lips together.

“Marius introduced us, you know.” Cosette looked slightly surprised at that, and he nodded with a faint smile. “He decided that it was wise to start chatting with a guy who was drinking at a bar with luggage and draft him for his social justice club.” Cosette laughed lightly with subtle adoration in her eyes.

“I sort of thought Enjolras was going to be a jerk, actually. No one can seem so amazing and not be a total ass, right? But I got into an argument with him within, like, four sentences, and then he was still fine with me coming to meetings. He even checked to make sure I had a place to stay.”

He sighed as he stared into his teacup, the liquid wobbling gently as he idly tapped his finger on the porcelain. “He’s just so... _bright._ Stunning. As if the sun and stars came together, and merged with the intrigue and elegance of the moon... He’s kind, and intelligent, and absolutely beautiful. And even if he weren’t so stunning visually, he'd still be just as radiant.”

His finger stilled as he bowed his head. “He is as magnificent as Apollo, and I would gladly be his Hyacinth if I could, but I could never be as good as he deserves. We could build a castle, but in the end, it would crumble by my hand. I would be my own West Wind, causing my own tragic end.” He took a heavy breath, only slightly unsteady. “I can only hope that he’ll let me remain in his light for a bit longer... If you let a blind man see for a single day, the darkness he returns to is that much more oppressive.”

Grantaire kept his head down for a moment. He looked up when Cosette wasn’t saying anything, and she startled where she had been frozen watching him. Grantaire was surprised and puzzled by the gloss in her eyes, but he didn’t say anything about it.

She set her teacup down to place her hands in her lap, back straight, and any evidence of the beginning of tears quickly vanished. She pressed her lips together in thought for a moment, then asked gently and simply, “Do you love him?”

Did he love Enjolras? In the simplest of terms, Grantaire was dreadfully besotted with him. He’d never really considered calling it love or anything of the like, because love just didn’t sound profound enough for the likes of Enjolras. Stupidly idealistic Enjolras, Enjolras who shined like the sun, Enjolras who made life a little more worth living...

Fuck.

Well, the first step is admitting you have a problem, right? So Grantaire looked Cosette in the eyes, serious and raw, and answered honestly. “I’m not sure that love is quite enough to describe it.”

*

Grantaire awoke the next morning in an unfamiliar room, which wasn’t at all an unusual experience for him. Once the fog of sleep had dissipated, he recognized his surroundings as Cosette’s small guest room, where she had insisted he stay for at least the night. He reached for his phone where it was charging on the bedside table, extremely grateful for his habit of keeping his knapsack packed with the necessities and a few clothing changes.

He’d received a text from Courfeyrac half an hour ago, at 8:30, and felt a hot flash of guilt for not notifying them of the situation.

 

> _u ok???? u didn’t come home last night, marius is worried u got like murdered or smth_

 

Grantaire’s breath caught. _You didn’t come home._ Courfeyrac and Marius considered their home to be Grantaire’s home. He felt at once touched, anxious, and even more guilty.

 

> _yeah, all good, sorry. just taking a bit of a break for a little while_

 

It only took Courfeyrac a couple of minutes to respond, the phone sounding off two buzzes as Grantaire changed his shirt and boxers.

>  
> 
> _kk long as ur ok man_
> 
> _r u comin back 2night??_

 

Grantaire stared at the screen nervously before tapping out a vague _maybe,_ then shot Éponine a quick update and turned his phone back off.

He spent the rest of the day in the armchair in Cosette’s living room, sketching and doodling and trying to forget about the world for little bit. He began to draw Enjolras first, but flipped away from the unfinished piece and onto the next clean page. Adamantly refusing to draw the object of his affections, he instead drew what he could see. A portrait of Cosette reading, curled up on the couch, messy braid barely brushing the book beneath her bowed head; a sketch of a teacup, with delicate cornflowers painted on the side and a small chip on the rim of the otherwise perfect porcelain; the fireplace, framed by elegant woodwork with the inside stained with soot.

Cosette apparently had no interest going out that day either, so she and Grantaire went about their own business in comfortable silence, chatting pleasantly during breakfast and when they ordered a pizza later on. At dusk, as Grantaire was putting the finishing touches on a charcoal recreation of the landscape painting hung over the mantel, the peaceful quiet was interrupted by three sharp knocks followed by the slap of a palm on the front door, a sound Grantaire instinctively recognized as Éponine

“Oh, uh, that’s probably my friend, I told her where I was,” he explained as Cosette left the living room to open the front door in the small hallway.

Sure enough, he heard a familiar voice outside. “Hi Cosette. Grantaire here?” Grantaire remembered then that Cosette and Éponine already knew each other, but he wasn’t sure whether that made the situation more or less awkward.

Cosette, at least, seemed to feel no discomfort at all. “Oh, hello Éponine! Yes, come in, make yourself at home.”

Éponine stepped in so that they could see each other through the open entryway between the living room and hall. “I come bearing gifts,” she said to him as she lifted one arm to present his guitar case. Grantaire grinned.

“Dear ‘Ponine, your presence is a gift in itself! Though your charity is greatly appreciated.”

Éponine rolled her eyes in good humor as she slipped her shoes off and went to sit on the end of the couch closest to Grantaire. The door clicked shut, and Cosette peeked into the room. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. And Éponine, I got the loveliest tea yesterday, Grantaire can vouch for it. If you want any, or anything else, just let me know!” She gave them both one last smile and strode up the staircase, followed by the sound of her bedroom door closing.

Once she was gone, Éponine sighed. “It’s really impossible not to like her, isn’t it?” she asked rhetorically, before shaking her head. “Whatever. This is about your tragic love life, not mine. So?” She crossed her legs and leaned forward expectantly.

Grantaire sighed internally. Éponine, straight to it as always. “I’m in love with Enjolras,” he confessed. Éponine only gave him a vaguely amused look.

“Yeah, no shit.”

Grantaire's sigh was external this time. “And it’s hopeless.”

“What makes you say that?”

He eyed her dubiously and responded, “Because he kind of hates me?” Éponine looked skeptical. “Or at least strongly dislikes me. I mean, I shit all over his opinions and constantly interrupt his meetings with my bullshit, there’s no way he isn’t annoyed by me.”

Éponine hummed thoughtfully. “Annoyed, maybe, but Enjolras gets annoyed by a lot of things. He doesn’t dislike you, though, he’d’ve kicked you out already if he did.”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t, because his friends like me for some misguided reason and he loves his friends.”

“Okay, first of all,” Éponine began resolutely, “liking you isn’t misguided in the least, and if you put yourself down like that, I’ll have to beat some self-love into you. Or just call Jehan to take care of it through some therapeutic pampering session.” Grantaire grimaced. “Second, if Enjolras honestly didn’t like you being there, he wouldn’t even give you the time of day. Does he seem like the type of person to have actual discussions with people he hates?”

He was silent at that, because she kind of had a point, and Éponine took that as concession. “Exactly. Now then,” she slipped to the floor and pulled something out of her jacket pocket, “get down here. Jehan told me we should redo your nails ‘cause they’re probably chipping by now.”

Grantaire snorted and set his sketchbook down as he sat across from her. “Alright, but don’t get any on the carpet. I’d feel bad, and then Cosette wouldn’t be angry in the least so I’d feel even worse.”

They chatted about various topics while Éponine painted his nails and her own toes. He told her a few anecdotes about his time in Amsterdam (because Amsterdam always made for good stories), and she told him about what Gavroche was up to in school. (“I’m pretty sure he started a gambling ring in his history class.”)

Later, as the two of them lay on the plush carpet and stared at the abstract patterns of paint on the ceiling while their nails dried, Grantaire absentmindedly asked, “Do you think Enjolras will ever start an actual revolt?” He felt her shoulder shift in a shrug.

“I mean if anyone were going to, it’d probably be him.”

There was a lengthy pause before Grantaire wondered, “How do proper revolutions even work nowadays? The government has tanks and bombs and shit.”

“We could resort to like... guerrilla warfare or something.”

Grantaire hummed. “We should go back to crossbows. They’re quiet and no one knows how to properly remove an arrow nowadays, and even if the target saw you they’d just go, ‘what the fuck, is that a fucking crossbow?’”

Another pause. “Shit,” Éponine whispered. “You’re totally right.”

That was how Cosette found them a few minutes later, and she very politely said nothing of it. “I was just about to make some tea if you want any?”

“Nah, thanks,” Éponine grunted as she hoisted herself up and put her socks back on. “I’ve gotta get going anyway. Need to make sure Gav hasn’t torched the apartment or something. Thanks for having me.” She slipped her shoes back on and gave Cosette a tentative smile. “And R. Get your shit together,” she said lovingly, and then she was gone into the night.

Cosette stared at the door after her for a moment before blinking at Grantaire, who was still comfortably splayed out in the middle of her living room. “Your nails look nice,” she complimented, and Grantaire absentmindedly thanked her.

That night, he eyed his guitar case where it was propped up in the corner of the guest room, until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

*

Cosette graciously allowed him to use her laptop as she left to go to class late the next morning. “Swear I won’t do anything weird,” he promised, before adding as an afterthought, “Oh, I might be out whenever you come back.” She laughed, a tinkling of bells, and said goodbye as he browsed and wrote song titles down on a page torn from his sketchbook.

The internet was a glorious tool, allowing Grantaire to look up all the rebellious songs he knew and come up with a short list of them with ease. He listened to each one a couple of times as a refresher, then gathered his things and headed off to the park around noon, locking up with the key Cosette’s father kept hidden outside. (The man had actually carved out a piece of brick and cut off some of the end to make a compartment hidden in the wall. Grantaire was both impressed and mildly frightened.)

It was a pleasant day, slightly overcast but not too cool or breezy. He whistled casually as he strolled through the Parisian streets, until he stopped at his usual spot in the park. He set up as he had before, leaning back against the short stone wall with his case open in front of him, and placed his short setlist on the ground by his foot before pulling the stack of cards out of his knapsack. He inspected the top card, off-white with tasteful Times New Roman font in a dark burgundy and displaying a date that was only a couple of weeks away, before he set them in the neck of his guitar case.

 

 

“ _The only way we’ll get freedom for ourselves is to identify ourselves with every oppressed people in the world.”_

_-Malcolm X_

_Stand up against the unjust treatment of refugees._

_19 Oct. 2:30pm, Place de la République_

_ABC_

 

 

As a final touch, he placed a ripped out page of his sketchbook that said “TAKE ONE” with an arrow pointing toward the stack of cards. Satisfied, he began to play.

These songs were a big change from his usual. The chords felt dusty and the lyrics felt like the echo of a memory, but regained his comfort quickly enough. He played through the setlist and noted with satisfaction that his stack of business cards was diminishing at a decent rate (and he was only slightly bitter when he noticed that more people were taking cards than leaving money). By the time he was wrapping up, only half of the stack remained.

He strummed the last chord of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” with a final dissonant note. When he looked up, his eyes were immediately drawn to a figure on the other side of the plaza with a brick-red jacket and hair that still shone even with the sun behind clouds.

They maintained eye contact for a moment, Enjolras pressing his lips together as he began to take a step forward but quickly retracted it. He glanced down at the TAKE ONE sign, then back up to Grantaire, to whom he nodded. Grantaire blinked, then nodded back. He was a bit far off, but he was fairly certain that Enjolras quirked a small smile before he turned to walk away.

Grantaire stayed frozen for a moment longer, watching the retreating back of red leather and the golden curls that bounced ever so gently with each step. In a daze, he packed up and began walking aimlessly, mind occupied thinking about Enjolras. Enjolras' eyes, Enjolras’ smile—was that a smile? Did he smile at Grantaire? Holy shit he smiled at Grantaire. Grantaire did his job, and Enjolras smiled at him.

He abruptly stopped when he realized that he’d ambled all the way to his temporary residence, the Art Deco building towering over him. After a moment's hesitation, he entered through the glass doors and strode forward with as much purpose as he could muster, then pressed the 4 button in the elevator.

As the elevator made its way up, Grantaire thought that he should tell Cosette that he wasn’t coming back, but swore when he realized that he hadn’t gotten her number. He supposed he'd have to ask Marius, though that had the potential to be a rather weird conversation. _Hey I just spent a couple of days at your girlfriend's house, could you give me her number?_

He sighed and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, but furrowed his brow when he felt a piece of paper in one of them. He pulled it out to unfold it just as the elevator sounded off a final _ding_. The sheet of stationary had a phone number written out in smooth ink, followed by _You're welcome_ and a smiley face, and signed with with a little heart. Grantaire chortled with a shake of his head as he stepped out of the elevator and went left down the hall. Like father like daughter, he supposed.

He stood outside of the apartment for a couple of minutes, first texting Cosette, then just staring at the 401 on the door apprehensively until he was able to bring himself to turn the doorknob. It was unlocked, meaning that at least one of his roommates was around, so he braced himself as he slowly entered.

Courfeyrac and Marius were both in the kitchen, the former pulling a tray of empanadas out of the oven while the latter was seated at the breakfast bar. They both looked over at his entrance, faces lighting up in a way that made his chest somehow both tighten and loosen, and Grantaire lazily raised a hand. “Hey,” he greeted simply as he walked across the living room to set his knapsack and guitar case down by the stairs.

“Hey!” Courfeyrac greeted with his usual cheer, and Marius waved. “The store had this crazy sale on frozen empanadas and we kind of ended up buying enough for an army—”

“Or for a Bahorel,” Marius interjected.

“—so we’re probably gonna be eating these for a while.”

Grantaire settled into the stool by Marius, appreciating the two’s valiant attempt at nonchalance, while Courfeyrac set the tray down on the dark counter and sat in the stool across from him. “Fine with me,” he shrugged. “I’ve survived off of McDonald’s cheapest for over a month, I can handle anything.” Courfeyrac grimaced while Marius looked vaguely amazed.

He grabbed an empanada off the tray (it was still pretty hot but fuck it, he was hungry) and took a bite, the other two doing the same in a subtly stilted silence. “Hey Marius,” Grantaire said as the boy began eating.

Marius jumped slightly. “Oh, uh, yes?”

Grantaire casually inspected his empanada’s meat filling and said, “Marry that girl,” before popping it into his mouth.

Marius sputtered, Courfeyrac laughed, and all was well.

*

Grantaire walked to Friday’s meeting with his roommates and Éponine, who was making him proud with her success in Operation Talk To Marius Like A Normal Human Being. The four strolled down the dim street as their laughs echoed off old buildings, and Grantaire realized that after only two days away, he had missed being with the members of Les Amis. He wasn’t really sure what to think of that.

As soon as the door swung open, Enjolras’ head jerked up, and he seemed to relax marginally when Grantaire acknowledged him with a nod and half a smile. He thought he saw Combeferre giving Enjolras a look, but he looked away before he could see his reaction when Éponine elbowed him in the side with a sharp grin. He swatted at her, and she laughed as they made their way to the bar, where Musichetta was ready for him with a beer and water. Grantaire remembered Tuesday’s heavy drinking fiasco and silently thanked her.

Everything seemed pretty normal. He cracked jokes with Bahorel, Joly, and Bossuet (the latter two having decided to sandwich him at the bar to offer their own subtle, tactile form of reassurance) with input from Courfeyrac, while occasionally pitching in on Jehan and Feuilly’s art discussion. Marius and Éponine were laughing at a story that Musichetta told, which the rest of them eventually ended up listening to as well; something about her friend going on a date and having to decide between two equally ridiculous options that only got more bizarre as more details were revealed. (Grantaire discovered then that Musichetta was a fantastic story teller, with a dynamic voice and enchanting flow, and even the other lone patrons in the café were listening in and chuckling along.)

The story reminded Combeferre of a philosophical joke pertaining to a brain in a vat and a runaway trolley, which he retold in that matter-of-fact way of his that somehow made it funnier. Grantaire had heard the joke before, but he still cracked a grin at it. He was fairly certain that Jehan knew it as well, judging by the way their eyes brightened with excitement as Combeferre began, but they erupted into giggles nonetheless. Bahorel snorted into his drink and Enjolras smiled amusedly, shoulders shaking slightly in silent breathy laughter. Grantaire felt relieved for some reason. Combeferre just looked silently pleased that they enjoyed the joke.

The group continued in their easy chatter, and yeah, Grantaire had missed his friends during his two days of moping. They began to quiet down when Enjolras stood from his seat at the farther table, Combeferre and Courfeyrac flanking him as usual. He possessed the same poise as usual, but he still seemed the slightest bit tense as he glanced over at Grantaire. It was subtle enough that it was unlikely that many others could see, but Grantaire noticed, because he was Grantaire and this was Enjolras.

In an attempt at reassurance, Grantaire announced dramatically, “Ah yes, turn your attention to the triumviri of our fine regime: the center, guide, and noble leader of the Cause! That's with a capital C, mind you. And ‘tis a noble cause indeed, my friends.”

Enjolras, though seemingly unamused on the surface, appeared to finally relax at the light badgering. “We’re not a triumvirate. If anything we’re more of an isocracy—no one is appointed as leader, and everyone has equal power.”

Grantaire snorted, while Joly piped up uncertainly beside him. “Well I mean, no one was _appointed_ as leader, but I think we all just kind of subconsciously decided that we were following you.” Murmurs of agreement resonated through the room, and while Enjolras outwardly looked unaffected, Grantaire could catch a hint of surprised pleasure and affection in the slight quirk of his lips and the set of his shoulders. (He'd really come to pride himself in his Enjolras-reading abilities.)

The meeting went on as usual, as if Tuesday hadn’t even happened, and Grantaire was endlessly relieved by it. Everyone gave updates on their success with handing out cards, Musichetta and Feuilly both noting that they would need more soon, which Grantaire marveled at because _jesus christ_ those stacks had at least a hundred each. Bahorel reported that all was well with the other groups that the ABC was working with, and that the lycée students in the activism club that was helping out were beyond excited to hear Enjolras’ speech. They’d heard him before, Bahorel explained, but it was different now that they felt like they had a bit of a hand in it. Enjolras looked pleased.

(Grantaire, however, was slightly wary of kids getting involved. He knew that Gavroche was a kid of course, but he was really more like a mischievous adult trapped in a child’s body, so he didn’t really count. Grantaire kept this to himself.)

After the meeting ended, to Grantaire’s surprise—and mild apprehension—Enjolras walked over and stopped in front of him. “Grantaire, would you mind staying here after everyone? I’d like to speak with you.”

Grantaire blinked. “Um. Sure?” Enjolras nodded curtly and went back to his table, and Éponine looked at Grantaire with a face that was the equivalent of _???_. Grantaire shrugged perplexedly.

He continued sipping at his water while he waited for everyone else to leave. While a large and cowardly part of him wished he could just be shitfaced for whatever was to come, he figured it’d be best if he remained effectively sober. Courfeyrac sent him an exaggerated wink on his way out and Jehan gently touched his arm with a smile, and Grantaire tried not to flush as he wondered if his feelings were really that obvious. Marius smiled at him cheerfully, but he just looked to be happy that his friends were getting along. Okay, at least he wasn’t _that_ obvious. If Marius could tell, it probably would have been a lost cause.

Musichetta had retreated to the back with headphones blaring the tinny sound of what sounded like a fusion of bossa nova and classic rock (Grantaire would have to ask her for music recommendations one of these days) and the other couple of patrons had long since left, so Éponine and Combeferre were the last to leave, each apparently having wanted to stick around for as long as possible. Grantaire and Enjolras gave reassuring looks to each of them respectively, Enjolras’ a touch exasperated while Grantaire’s was in part a sardonic acceptance of whatever was to come.

Once they were both gone, Grantaire took a calming breath and finished his water before crossing the room to where Enjolras sat patiently.

“Thank you for agreeing to stay behind,” he began as Grantaire settled into what had been Courfeyrac’s seat. “I'm aware that you aren’t overly fond of me, but—”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Grantaire interrupted, baffled. “Sorry, just—what on earth makes you think I don’t like you?”

Enjolras’ face creased with confusion. “Well you argue with me all the time, and we don’t usually seem to get along that well.”

Fuck. What was he supposed to say to that? _I argue with you because I think it brings out your best_? _I'm an impulsive asshole who's totally gone for you_? _You’re the personification of everything I wish the world was and you actually believe it could be like that, and it kills me yet gives me life_? Instead, he settled for a straightforward, “Enjolras, that’s a ridiculous assumption.”

Enjolras, bless his heart, looked completely thrown off. “Oh.” He cleared his throat and shifted, trying to recollect his composure. “Right, well. Good. Anyway...” A beat, presumably to gather his thoughts. He sat up straight, looking directly at Grantaire with regained self-assurance. “I’d like to apologize.”

Okay, he really didn’t expect that. “What, what for?”

“For what happened on Tuesday.” Ah, of course.

Grantaire shook his head and settled farther into his chair. “You don’t have to apologize, I’m the one who fucked up. I, uh... I drank more than usual, and I really shouldn’t have.”

Enjolras nodded. “I figured you had,” he said bluntly and _ouch_ , that kind of stung. “I really am glad you came back, though.”

Trying to ignore the warm fuzzy feeling that spread under his skin, Grantaire shrugged nonchalantly. “Home sweet home, right?” he joked, but Enjolras looked like he suddenly remembered something important.

“Where _is_ your home?” he asked suddenly.

Grantaire blinked. “What?”

“I've been meaning to ask you. Where do you live?”

He peered at Enjolras as if he’d just asked if the ocean is big, and Enjolras was either a very good actor or concerningly oblivious to non-political matters. “With Marius and Courfeyrac...?”

Enjolras looked surprised (though not unpleasantly so, which Grantaire would mull over later). “I wasn’t aware that’d become a permanent arrangement.”

“It hasn’t,” Grantaire said slowly.

At that, Enjolras only seemed more puzzled, with an undercurrent of familiar annoyance at the conversation not going anywhere. “But if you’re only here temporarily, where do you actually live?” Ah.

It was almost comedic that out of all their friends, Enjolras was probably the only one who hadn’t figured out the gist of Grantaire’s situation. He was fairly certain that everyone else sort of knew already, but it’d become one of those things that everyone acknowledges but never brings up. Though considering that the other thing under that category was Grantaire’s drinking, it shouldn't have been all too surprising that Enjolras was the one to totally overlook the unspoken agreement to not talk about it.

Grantaire closed his eyes for a second to summon up the strength to carry out this conversation. “I don’t technically live anywhere,” he explained with some semblance of calm. “Right now I'm staying with Marius and Courf, before this I was sleeping in a library in Brussels, and eventually I’ll probably have some new unstable living situation elsewhere.” ‘Probably’ because there was always the possibility of dying before then. _N_ _ot_ because there was a chance of him staying in Paris.

Realization appeared on Enjolras’ stupid, beautiful face. “You’re homeless?”

“No, I’m not homeless.” Grantaire tried to keep his sigh from sounding too long-suffering, but he wasn’t so sure he succeeded. “I may be houseless and hopeless, but I’m not homeless,” he joked halfheartedly, and Enjolras pursed his lips at the self-deprecation.

“You don’t have a home, though.”

“The world is my home, Apollo,” Grantaire corrected with a grandiose gesture, “just as the Heavens are yours. If anything, I’m a vagrant, or a traveling renaissance man, roaming the lands in hopes of inspiration.”

To his surprise, Enjolras brushed off the dramatics completely, instead leaning forward in interest. “Where all have you gone, then?”

Grantaire paused, a bit startled by the genuine interest and attention that had suddenly been focused on him. “Most of Europe, as far east as Turkey.”

Enjolras’ eyes were sparking and _oh no_ , Grantaire recognized that look, that was the fires-of-rebellion-burning-within look. It was horrible and painful and he couldn’t look away. “If you’ve been that far east, you must have seen some of the movements in those regions. What were they like?”

He sounded so eager that Grantaire almost didn’t want to disappoint him. It was tempting to just make up some story about the passion and anger of the citizens or something. Despite that, he shrugged and gave a surprisingly real answer. “Messy. Terrifying. That sort of thing's part of why I came back this way to begin with, to stay away from the worst of it.”

Whatever respect or interest he’d earned from Enjolras was lost, and Grantaire privately mourned it. “You mean you were in the midst of revolts and rebellions, and you just _ran_?”

He sighed through his nose. “Yes, actually. I did run, because as I said, it was fucking horrifying and it wasn’t my mess to deal with.”

Enjolras was some godforsaken mixture of irritated and incredulous, and Grantaire did not particularly enjoy being the subject of it. “Well you’re home now,” Grantaire flinched minutely, “so doesn’t what we’re doing here in France count as something that _is_ yours to deal with?”

“No, it really doesn’t,” Grantaire answered bitterly. “I’ve seen enough of that for one lifetime. What you're doing here isn’t going to work like you think it will, and I don’t really want to watch you go any further just to fail.”

Enjolras’ anger flared brightly at that, but a face of marble soon covered it, and Grantaire remembered the frigid fury from when they first met. He distantly mused over the fact that this had started out as an apology.

“Well,” Enjolras said flatly, voice cold, “if that’s the case, then you don’t have to be here to watch at all.”

Grantaire only let his guard drop for a second, face breaking for just a breath (and he was certain that he only imagined the flash of regret in Enjolras’ eyes), but he quickly schooled his expression and tried not to let his desperation shine through. The instinct to escape was tempting, but he wasn’t about to walk away for the second time that week. For once in his goddamn life, he needed to be honest.

“I’ve seen people like you before,” he began, his voice surprisingly solid. “I’ve seen them stand up for their ideals and fight for them. And I’ve seen them get fucking killed for it.”

He could see the ice shatter, Enjolras’ eyes widening slightly as he watched Grantaire, who took a shaky breath and continued, “Standing up for shit like this might’ve worked a couple of centuries ago, but that was when everyone was mostly on equal ground. Now the people you’re waving signs at have tanks, and they don’t listen anymore because they don’t have to, because they can just beat you into submission if they want.”

Enjolras looked like he wanted to argue that, but Grantaire kept going. If he stopped now, he never be able to continue. “And once you realize that this isn’t going to work, you’ll try being louder. And louder. And eventually you’ll all put down your picket signs and pick up something worse, but that won’t work either, because there are always people with bigger guns.

“The kind of shit you’re doing here can get you and your friends hurt.” _Can get_ my _friends hurt._ “People try to make changes, but they only ever get shit on for it, and I don’t want to see that happen here too.” _I don’t want that to happen to you, I don't want to see you die._

Enjolras seemed to be at a loss for words, and Grantaire might have laughed at the sheer oddity of such a thing if he hadn’t just bared his soul to the person he was in love with. (And god, Cosette could give him as many talks as she wanted, but admitting to that would always give him heart palpitations. Not in the cute fluttery way, either, but in the fight-or-flight way. And for Grantaire, flight was the reigning champion of that battle.)

“If you’re concerned about safety,” Enjolras said carefully, thinking over each word like it was calculus, “you don’t have to go to the rallies if you don't want to. We’d all understand.”

Grantaire stared in disbelief before barking a sharp laugh. At Enjolras’ look of confusion and either irritation or embarrassment (Grantaire wasn’t sure that Enjolras was capable of embarrassment, but he also hadn’t thought him to be capable of such cluelessness), he shook his head. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” he explained with a wry sort of sadness, and he saw the realization slowly dawn like Helios' chariot.

“Oh,” Enjolras said for the second time that night. Call him a delusional, lovestruck dreamer (god knew he was already calling himself that anyway), but Enjolras almost seemed as if he was viewing Grantaire in a different light. He could dream, at least.

There was a lull, Enjolras gathering his thoughts and Grantaire enjoying the brief moment of respite, before he cleared his throat. “Am I allowed to ask about...”

He eyed Grantaire searchingly, and Grantaire wondered what he could possibly be referring to until he remembered that he’d just alluded to having seen at least one activist killed in the line of self-appointed duty. Right. He heaved a sigh and ran a hand down his face, examining the grains of the wooden table.

“Istanbul,” Grantaire said wearily. He saw Enjolras tense in his peripheral; a lot of shit had gone down in Istanbul and he probably knew about every bit of it. “I don’t even know why I went. I never really thought it was going to change anything, but... I just liked watching them, I guess. They actually thought they were making a difference, and it was... I was kind of jealous, maybe? But I wanted to watch, maybe help, if I could.

“We were all just sitting around, reading and singing and hanging out. I had a guitar. It was nice. And there was this kid, really enthusiastic about the whole thing, handing out these little pamphlets and shit. I’m pretty sure he made them himself. Couldn’t’ve been more than 13. But then they, uh, they brought out the tear gas.”

He took a steadying breath, eyes pointedly looking straight ahead. “You know, they say those things are non-lethal, and it’s just riot control, but if the canister hits you right... And I mean, I knew that people could die during protests, it wasn't my first time attending something with a death count, but seeing it up close—and we were just singing, it wasn’t even a riot, it got worse after that but we were just... He was just...”

He trailed off, staring out to where his mind’s eye could still see the boy’s excited fervor drain from his face, the pamphlets getting trampled into the dirt, people screaming and running and getting the shit beaten out of them, the fires and broken glass that came later, police shouting while a fucking _child_ was—

Grantaire was yanked out of his memories when a warm hand was placed over his own where it lay limp on the table. He jerked his head up to see Enjolras, who looked at Grantaire with concern and solidarity (and only he could still make comfort look so intense, only Enjolras could look gentle and simultaneously ready to take down the entire world). Grantaire swallowed, unwilling to break away from his gaze and not daring to even twitch a finger for fear that he’d lose that grounding warmth.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire was about to sigh because apologizing for bad experiences is a stupid custom that solves nothing, but he continued. “I’ve been unfair. I made assumptions about you, and I’m sorry.”

Grantaire shifted in his seat and shrugged. “I mean, you couldn’t have known. Not like I wear a bracelet that says ‘I may or may not be affected by what may or may not be minor PTSD.’ Besides, that sort of thing doesn't really excuse shitty actions. It’s no big deal.”

Enjolras didn’t fall for the sarcastic baiting, instead shaking his head. “No, I shouldn’t have just, _assumed_ that you disagreed just for the sake of disagreeing. No one is that negative without some reason to be.”

“Well I mean, I was already a negative, skeptical asshole, this just added some pessimism and emotional trauma to it. Before that, I didn’t really have an excuse.”

Enjolras only glanced away for half a second before returning with an open softness to his face that Grantaire had never dreamed of seeing, much less directed toward him. “So... are we okay? Do you forgive me?”

He tried his damnedest not to downright swoon. “Yeah, I—of course. Am _I_ forgiven?” _Am I forgiven for bugging you like a seven year old with a crush? Am I forgiven for being afraid for you when I’ve only know the lot of you for a few weeks? Am I forgiven for falling so stupidly in love with you?_

Grantaire relaxed a fraction when Enjolras nodded. “Of course,” he echoed sincerely, and Grantaire smiled tentatively.

“Then yeah, we’re okay.” Enjolras smiled as well, genuine and warm, and Grantaire had to remind himself to breathe.

Enjolras moved his chair back, hand still placed over Grantaire’s. “I’ll see you later, then?” he inquired casually, as if Grantaire hadn’t just revealed some of the darkest recesses of his mind to him, as if he wasn’t still holding his fucking hand.

“Tuesday at the latest.” And if the gods were smiling down on him, perhaps before then.

Enjolras nodded and began to leave, hand lingering for just a second. He stopped in the door to turn back and offer a nod that Grantaire responded to with a little wave, then the door closed behind him. Grantaire counted to ten before slamming his head down on the table.

“You good?” Chetta asked as she came out from the back. Grantaire only made a muffled pathetic noise, and she pat his shoulder comfortingly.

Later, as the elevator rose to the fourth floor, he got a text from Enjolras that said,

 

> _t_ _hank you for telling me._

 

Grantaire made a mental note to never throw this phone into a river.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you tell that I love Cosette? Because I do love Cosette. What an angel. I can't even blame Marius, I'd be in dumb puppy love too.
> 
> Combeferre's dumb philosophy joke is "Can Bad Men Make Good Brains Do Bad Things?" by Michael F. Patton Jr. It supposedly won't make sense unless you really know philosophy, but I think that even if you only have a vague understanding of it the sheer ridiculousness makes it pretty funny.
> 
> Grantaire's experience was based on the Gezi park protests in Istanbul, Turkey in 2013 and the death of Berkin Elvan, a 14-year-old who was hit by a tear-gas canister and was in a coma for 269 days before he died. I took some liberties of course so that it's not the exact incident, but I tried to treat the topic with the seriousness and weight it deserves. Hopefully I succeeded.


	5. Sons of Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings and fighting the system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike previous chapters, this one has a few perspective changes throughout.
> 
> A quick description of the statue de la Republique, just for reference: it's about 31 feet tall, mostly stone with a depiction of a ballot box embeded in the round base, guarded by a bronze lion. The base/ballot box are about two and a half people tall? topped by a bronze statue of Marianne, with depictions of Liberte and Egalite down on her left and right and Fraternite at the back. The basin has water in it during the summer, but at the time of the fic it would be empty (at least I'm pretty sure; if not, then it is in this universe).
> 
> If you want more information on it and the Place de la Republique as a whole, [here's a neat .pdf file with technical information and whatnot.](http://republique.tvk.fr/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/TVK_Republique_DP_ENG_A3web.pdf)

When Enjolras entered his apartment, Combeferre was patiently awaiting him in the living room, seated in their plush armchair with a cup of coffee in his hand and a book about entomology open on his lap. How he could casually study various complicated subjects while majoring in neuroscience was beyond Enjolras.

He didn’t look up from his book, merely gestured with his free hand to the closest end of the couch where another full mug sat on the coffee table. Enjolras dropped his bag on one of the cushions before sinking down and taking a gracious sip of coffee—four sugars and a hefty amount of cream, his usual comfort-concoction. (His morning drink, on the other hand, was two sugars and a splash of cream; while his “I have work to do and haven’t slept more than three hours in as many days” coffee was black and only slightly less viscous than tar, because a shock to the system did wonders on such occasions.)

Combeferre didn’t say anything, instead allowing Enjolras to collect his thoughts, which he was eternally grateful for because _what_. He had only anticipated a quick apology to tie up loose ends and then maybe a minute or two of polite conversation, but Grantaire had surprised him as he so often did. Enjolras had expected to go home feeling satisfied and relieved—and he did, mind you, but he was also left reassessing every opinion he'd formed about the man whom he now knew to be homeless, a touch traumatized, and worried so deeply about people he’d only just met. He'd thought Grantaire to just be a negative, skeptical heckler—and he still was, Enjolras wasn't so shallow as to completely reform his view of a person after learning of their tragic backstory, but now that there was more to it, now that he had more information to fill in the gaps, he felt that he needed to reassess a few things.

After a few treacherous minutes of introspection and reflection, Enjolras realized that Combeferre had closed his book and was watching him expectantly. There was a stretch of silence before Enjolras finally sighed. “Grantaire is...” He struggled for words before settling on, “Did you know that he’s homeless?”

Combeferre looked subtly amused and surprised. “Did you not?” Enjolras groaned and hung his head back, and his friend's amusement became slightly more overt. “Though I’m not sure that I’d phrase it as _homeless_ , as that tends to have a certain connotation. A vagrant, maybe, or a wanderer...” Enjolras groaned again, loud and irritated, and Combeferre smiled humorously but not unkindly.

Draining his coffee, Enjolras set the mug down on the low table and sunk back into the couch cushions as far as he could, chewing his lip pensively. “I don’t know how much I should say, but... he’s _seen things_.” As much as he hated to even hint at Grantaire’s secrets like this, he needed to talk to someone about it, and Combeferre was practically his conscience. (Courfeyrac had called him his Jiminy Cricket once, and Enjolras found that it was a rather apt comparison. He’d gotten Combeferre a burgundy umbrella that Christmas.)

Combeferre nodded thoughtfully and leaned back in the armchair, removing his glasses to idly rub at the lenses with the hem of his sweater. “I thought maybe he had.” At Enjolras’ pointedly perplexed expression, he explained, “He has a certain look about him—not quite _sad,_ per se, but... melancholy? Distant?” He shrugged. “Jehan mentioned it the other day.”

“Has _everyone_ realized these things about Grantaire except for me?” Enjolras questioned agitatedly. Combeferre placed his glasses back on his nose and shrugged again. “ _How?_ ”

“Perhaps you just haven’t looked closely enough.”

That gave Enjolras pause, and he looked down at his lap, brow furrowed. Perhaps he was right.

Later, after he’d retired to his room, Enjolras sat at his desk with the final draft of his speech open on his laptop, worrying at his lip and periodically pushing up his glasses as he lazily turned his office chair back and forth. After some time, he sighed, something he realized he’d been doing an awful lot lately, and rolled himself forward to reach his keyboard. He hadn’t the time to ponder over the intricacies of Grantaire; there were only a couple of weeks left until the rally, and he had work to do.

As he lay in bed several hours later, though, without anything directly in front of him to occupy his mind, he resumed attempting to sort through his newly expanded collection of Grantaire-related knowledge. He felt that he’d require cork boards and several meters of string to make sense of it all.

*

Late Sunday morning found Grantaire absentmindedly humming as he slid two cupcake tins into the stainless steel oven. He’d been beginning to feel guilty about staying at Marius and Courfeyrac’s for free for so long, but they absolutely _refused_ to let him pay any rent, the rich and magnanimous bastards. Regardless, he didn’t want to just accept their charity, so he figured that making them food was the least he could do.

As the oven door closed, the front door swung open, followed by a determined stride. “Courfeyrac, have you read the final draft yet?”

“He’s not here.”

Enjolras whirled around abruptly at Grantaire’s voice, for some reason looking shocked to see him there. Or perhaps he was just thrown off by the sight of Grantaire leaning back against the counter top and surrounded by baking supplies, more than likely with flour on his face and/or in his hair. (He hadn’t checked a mirror yet, but he was willing to bet on it.)

Grantaire raised a hand and waggled his fingers in greeting, an amused and lopsided smirk painted across his face. “Does the grand Apollo have an aversion to making phone calls?”

Enjolras mouth twisted in a way that indicated he was only slightly put off. “I prefer to receive critique face-to-face.” Grantaire hummed, and Enjolras examined the kitchen from afar before asking with subtle curiosity, “What are you making?”

Though a bit surprised by the interest, Grantaire answered, “Cupcakes.”

Enjolras closed the door and came closer so that only the breakfast bar and two yards of kitchen tile separated them. “I didn’t know you baked.”

Grantaire detected a hint of hesitance, and decided to mercifully go along with the whole civilized-casual thing that Enjolras seemed to be trying for.

“Best damn cupcakes in Europe.” He pushed off the counter, turning to grab the hand mixer and fish a large bowl out of the cabinet. “And now, while those little fuckers are in there,” he nudged at the oven with his toe, “I’ve got to make the best damn icing in Europe.”

There was only a brief pause before he heard behind him, “Is there anything I can help with?”

Grantaire swiveled to see Enjolras watching him, his poised aura slightly dimmed by underlying awkward hesitance. No, not dimmed—a bit off kilter, perhaps, but he was still just as radiant as always. He stood there for a moment before he realized he was just silently staring, then nodded hastily. “Sure. Get the milk out?”

Enjolras went around the breakfast bar and to the fridge to complete his task, while Grantaire retrieved the powdered sugar and cocoa powder and checked that the butter was sufficiently softened. (He also took a second to shove down any and all anxiety about this turn of events and lock it up in a metal box to deal with later because he was _not_ going to ruin this.) After he’d lined up all the ingredients, Enjolras noted the single bowl and questioned, “Only chocolate icing?”

“Uh,” Grantaire blinked. “Yeah? Yellow cupcakes and chocolate icing, it's a classic.” Enjolras hummed.

“You should make some of them vanilla. Marius prefers it.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, and Enjolras looked at him with a quiet challenge in his eyes. The challenge didn’t rile him up or ruin the atmosphere at all, the familiarity instead serving to soothe Grantaire’s nerves.

There was nothing to argue with there, though, so he shrugged. “Alright, thanks.” As he fetched another bowl, he saw Enjolras look slightly taken aback for a second before relaxing in a way that looked almost pleased.

“Okay,” Grantaire began once the ingredient line up was complete, “so I’ll explain just what we’re doing, and then you can make the vanilla icing while I handle the chocolate.”

It took a little longer than it would have if it were just Grantaire, but having to take the time to explain things was worth watching Enjolras struggle with the hand mixer and try to keep powdered sugar from flying everywhere. Grantaire took the first turn with beating the mixture by hand, and they traded off when his arm got tired (which had taken a while, and Enjolras spent the last few minutes concernedly eyeing him until they finally switched). The cupcakes finished in the oven before the icing was ready, so Grantaire set them out to cool while he and Enjolras finished up and spooned it into plastic bags.

Piping the icing on was an experience. Enjolras made a mess of the first few (“I haven’t done this since I was a child in my grandmother’s kitchen,” he’d defended petulantly, and Grantaire filed that tidbit of information away next to how Enjolras acted when flustered), but he gradually got neater until the last row looked almost as good as Grantaire’s.

Somewhere between Grantaire making kitchen puns that earned him groans with suppressed smiles and Enjolras pridefully displaying his first perfect swirl of icing, Grantaire was struck by how domestic this was. Not just domestic, but _easy_. And rather than the freezing grip of anxiety that he would have expected, all he felt was a warm fluttering in his chest and a proper grin emerging on his face.

Grantaire artfully arranged the cupcakes on a couple of platters set on the breakfast bar afterwards and, to his amusement, Enjolras pulled his phone out to take pictures of them. “You gonna post that to Instagram?” he teased, arms crossed as he leaned against the bar.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “No, I only want proof that I managed to do something more complicated than scrambled eggs. Combeferre would never believe me otherwise.” Grantaire laughed again, and Enjolras flashed him a small smile. “Step over, you’re in the shot.”

“What, don’t want my unsightly mug distracting from your culinary masterpiece?” Grantaire joked, but he was moving over anyway.

“Or I just don’t want the camera’s focus to be inevitably captured by an alluring subject,” Enjolras countered dryly as he repeatedly tapped the screen. He only seemed to realize just what he’d said when Grantaire went silent— _completely_ silent, because he wasn’t even breathing, only staring with his lips parted slightly and a hint of his previous smile remaining.

Enjolras froze, then abruptly straightened and put his phone away, turning to Grantaire with a tight smile and silently screaming eyes. “Thank you for the baking lesson. This was fun,” he said, trying very hard to sound casual.

Grantaire’s mouth worked for a moment. “Yeah, yeah no problem,” he responded, only sounding half as dazed as he felt. “Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire had to stop himself from asking, _do you mean that?_ He cleared his throat and gestured vaguely toward the front door. “I have to...”

“Right, yeah.” Grantaire nodded hastily, and Enjolras headed that way, but paused at the door to look back.

“See you at Tuesday's meeting?” he asked, and dear lord above, he actually kind of looked hopeful about it.

“Absolutely,” Grantaire answered definitively. _And hopefully not before then because I don’t know if my heart can take it._

Enjolras smiled, a relaxed curve of his lips that showed just a hint of his teeth and made his eyes lift slightly, their blues now reminding Grantaire of a bright spring day. After he left, Grantaire remained frozen to the spot, staring at the door and recalling the striking image of Enjolras smiling, smiling at _him_ , looking happy because of _him._ Smiling beautifully with the same lips that had just curled around the word _alluring_.

He needed a drink, a walk, and a tube of cerulean paint.

*

Enjolras walked to the Métro briskly, each step punctuated by an internal chant of _shit, shit, shit, shit, shit._

He called Grantaire attractive. He made icing with Grantaire, decorated cupcakes with Grantaire, joked with Grantaire, and then called him _alluring_. And as if that weren’t mortifying in itself, Enjolras wasn’t at all accustomed to things just slipping out. He’d always carefully selected almost every word he said to ensure maximum effect and properly convey his intentions. In this situation, though... Well, there was certainly an effect. But what _were_ his intentions? Why does one call someone else attractive outright? Flirting, perhaps, but that wasn’t flirting—it wasn’t supposed to be, at least. And Grantaire offhandedly called Enjolras pretty and attractive all the time, but that was just casual. Wasn't it?

Enjolras flung the front door open and slammed it shut behind him, instantly halting the voices on the couch and leaving only the sound of a film playing on Combeferre’s laptop. Combeferre and Courfeyrac craned their necks to see the source of the noise and _ah, there he was._

The film paused and both friends were silent as Enjolras speed-walked toward the armchair, steps seemingly confident while the stiff set of his shoulders and carefully blank expression betrayed his true composure. He sunk into the chair and his friends continued to watch him, Combeferre displaying patience while Courfeyrac looked both curious and mildly concerned.

“I went to your apartment looking for you,” Enjolras finally said to Courfeyrac.

“Well... I wasn’t there,” Courfeyrac pointed out needlessly. Enjolras nodded.

“I know.” He paused, eyes trained on the coffee table. “Grantaire was, though.”

Courfeyrac sighed. “I swear to god if you two duked it out in my living room...”

“We decorated cupcakes.”

Dead silence. The two stared, Combeferre squinting as if trying to compute, all three totally silent until Courfeyrac broke the spell with a loud snort. He quickly stifled the ensuing giggles at a sharp look from Enjolras. “You, uh...” He stopped to clear his throat and try to do away with the laughter bubbling in his voice. “You decorated... cupcakes?” The last word was practically a squeak, and Enjolras glared.

“He was baking when I got there,” Enjolras explained seriously. “I offered to help, he taught me how to make icing, and then we decorated them.” He paused, glancing between the two of them (Courfeyrac looked like he was about to explode) before adding, “I took pictures.”

The dam broke and Courfeyrac burst into howling laughter. Enjolras waited resignedly as his friend slid off the couch and onto the floor, where he pooled into a puddle of hoodie and frizzy curls shaking with laughs muffled by the rug. He noticed with dismay that even Combeferre had amusement twinkling behind his glasses and his lips pressed together to contain quiet laughter. _Et tu, Brute?_

Courfeyrac pulled himself up from the floor as his laughter subsided, wiping at an eye as he struggled to catch his breath. “Okay, so,” he began breathlessly, letting out another giggle before continuing, “so you went to my apartment, and then you and R... made cupcakes.”

“Decorated,” Enjolras corrected.

“So _he_ made the cupcakes,” Combeferre elaborated, “and you helped decorate them.” Enjolras nodded. “And?”

Enjolras blinked, suspiciously noting the gleeful amusement creeping up in Combeferre's face. “And...?”

“Did you have fun?”

Courfeyrac snorted again, and Enjolras groaned. “Why does that matter?” he ground out flusteredly. “That’s a ridiculous question, completely unnecessary. I mean _yes_ I did enjoy it but that’s beside the point.”

Combeferre listened with a self-satisfied smirk, and Courfeyrac nodded slowly as he tried to hide his amusement for the sake of appearing diplomatic. Enjolras had half a mind to throttle the both of them.

“So what exactly is the source of your distress, my fine friend? Courfeyrac inquired. “Was there a conflict following your cupcake session?”

“No, it wasn’t a conflict, not exactly.” Enjolras could feel his face flushing a bit as he averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “I, um. Accidentally called him attractive.” He sank farther back into the chair. “To his face.”

And so returned the silence. Enjolras tentatively looked over again to see his friends gaping at him. “Oh come on,” he exclaimed embarrassedly, face still a touch red, “it’s not like I jumped him!”

Courfeyrac shook his head, face still bright with delighted mirth. “No, you only implied that you’d like to.”

Enjolras flushed further. “It wasn’t anything like that,” he defended. “I didn’t say anything remotely sexual, I only called him alluring.”

Courfeyrac barked a singular laugh, eyes still wide. “ _Alluring,_ he says!” He turned to where Combeferre sat beside him. “‘Ferre, would you say that _alluring_ has a place on the Compliments That Convey Sexual Attraction list?”

Combeferre hummed thoughtfully. “You know, Courf, I believe it may.” Enjolras sighed and buried his face in his hands, betrayed. “And not that it’s my business, although as your roommate and one of your best friends it actually absolutely _is_ my business,” Enjolras peeked through his fingers, “are you planning to... _pursue_ this?”

With a huff, Enjolras leaned back and looked toward the ceiling. “Pursue what? Yes, I admit I may be a _bit_ attracted to Grantaire. But for one thing, that doesn’t necessarily mean he returns the sentiment—” He was cut off by a sharp laugh from Courfeyrac, who regarded him exasperatedly while Combeferre was looking at him with something that looked disturbingly close to pity. He squinted at them, but continued.

“ _Anyway_ it’s not like we can stand each other for more than five minutes.”

“You did today,” Combeferre pointed out. With no counterpoint, Enjolras pressed his lips together and returned his eyes to the coffee table.

Combeferre seemed content with allowing Enjolras to ponder in silence for a bit, but Courfeyrac interrupted with none of his previous glee. “Enj,” he began, serious but tender. This was a voice that Enjolras normally only heard from his friend when discussing particularly dark issues and events, so he gave his full attention. “If you’re gonna go through with this, you need to be sure. I don’t know the details or anything, but I can at least tell from being around him so much that R isn’t totally okay. So if you want to try, you need to be completely serious about it.”

Enjolras nodded with a gravity equal to his friend's sudden solemnity. Not because Courfeyrac had twisted his arm, but because Enjolras did know at least a few details, and he already had no intention of trying anything unless he was certain that he was ready to properly commit. Grantaire deserved nothing less.

Satisfied, Courfeyrac nodded and stood. “Now then,” he announced, having regained his lighthearted demeanor, “I will take my leave! I’ve heard from a reputable source that there are cupcakes waiting for me.” He clapped Combeferre’s shoulder and ruffled Enjolras’ hair in passing, to his halfhearted protest. “I look forward to devouring the results of your efforts!” he called as a final farewell.

The door shut, and Combeferre stood from the couch. “Coffee?”

Enjolras nodded gratefully. As he listened to the sound of Combeferre bustling around in the kitchen, he shifted to slip his phone out of his pocket and open the photo album. After scrolling past several pictures of the cupcakes, he opened the first shot he’d taken.

Grantaire was only just in the frame, casually leaning against the breakfast bar with his arms crossed, flour in his hair, a smear of cocoa marking his face that was lit up with laughter. In that moment, none of the sardonic and self-deprecating humor that Enjolras had grown accustomed to was present. His grin was full and open-mouthed, and he regarded Enjolras behind the camera with sparkling eyes.

He stared at the photo for longer than he’d admit to. He needed a shit load of cream and sugar, and a lot of time to think.

*

Grantaire’s walk (during which he had half a mind to run for the hills and get the fuck out of Paris) became a couple of hours spent in a charming little book and coffee shop that he found, and he didn’t return to the apartment until mid-afternoon. The door was unlocked, and he opened it to find Jehan and Bahorel on the couch with knitting needles and a basket of yarn. Jehan was just starting on something green while encouraging Bahorel’s surprisingly neatly stitched scarf, which was an almost painful shade of orange but charming nonetheless.

With vague amusement, Grantaire shut the door behind him. “Is this Les Amis’ unofficial backup location, or...?”

“Pretty much,” Bahorel confirmed at the same time that Jehan said, “The lighting in here is really good.”

Unable to argue with that (and not really caring to anyway), Grantaire collapsed into the recliner just as he heard a rapid slap of feet against hardwood drawing nearer behind him.

“R!” Courfeyrac shouted as he pounced into the chair, forcing the air out of Grantaire’s lungs. “Those cupcakes are amazing, you beautiful bastard!”

Grantaire pat his friend’s head. “Glad you like ‘em,” he choked out.

“I had a vanilla one, they really are great,” Jehan complemented from the couch, and Bahorel nodded.

“I only had two because they wouldn’t let me keep going.”

“Kind of you to leave some for everyone else,” Grantaire said sarcastically. Courfeyrac hopped off of him then, and Grantaire took the opportunity to suck in a deep breath.

“Okay, I have to go write a comprehensive report on the life and studies of Ivan Pavlov, so I bid you farewell!” He leaned down to press a comically loud kiss on Grantaire’s head and made his leave.

“Enjolras was looking for you earlier, by the way,” Grantaire called to him as an afterthought, twisting to lean around the back of the chair.

“I know!” Courfeyrac responded from the hallway. “ _Wink._ ”

Grantaire scrunched his face up at that, but elected to ignore it in favor of a more curious matter. “What does he even study?”

“Theatre, supposedly, but his schedule's a bit funny,” Jehan answered as they started another row on what now looked like it may become a hat. Grantaire squinted, but ultimately shrugged and reached into his bag to pull out the book he’d purchased—some cheesy mystery novel from the early 2000s, back when pop culture was still in its awkward phase and trying to grow into the new millennium. It only took a few pages for him to find that it was just as delightfully ridiculous as the synopsis had sounded.

About one hour (or 73 pages) later, Bahorel stood to leave, slinging his traffic cone scarf over his broad shoulders. “Well, friends, I’ve got a test to not study for. R, Jehan, _Courfeyrac!_ ” He nodded to each of them in turn, and shouted the last name toward the hall to receive a loud groan in response. With that, he bid them adieu and took his leave.

A few minutes later, after finishing the new row, Jehan put their knitting down and stretched their arms. “So! What’s up with Enjolras?”

Grantaire, who was spread out lazily in the armchair with his book, lost his place mid-sentence and sputtered. “What?”

“Enjolras,” Jehan repeated as they slipped the unfinished maybe-hat into their shoulder bag. “Apparently you’ve talked to him today, and now you look a bit distressed, but also cautiously happy.” Grantaire noted to never play poker with Jehan. “Does this have to do with him keeping you after the meeting?”

“No, that was nothing,” he denied. Jehan only watched him curiously until Grantaire sighed and put his book down. If it were anyone else he’d be annoyed by their prying, but this was Jehan. Sweet Jehan who worried and cared for their friends and always lent a friendly ear, like a Romantic little therapist. A therapist who was unafraid to slap you silly if you were really fucking something up.

“We talked the other night,” Grantaire relented. “He apologized, I apologized, I accidentally revealed some of my tragic backstory, and now he’s being nice to be. Like, weirdly nice. I mean, he helped me decorate cupcakes this morning—fucking Apollo rolled his sleeves up to whip together some buttercream with me!”

He noticed that his voice began to take on a slightly hysterical tinge at the end, so he shut up and slid farther down in the chair, one leg slung over an arm, head in the crevice between the other arm and the back cushion. In a smaller voice, he admitted, “I wanted to get along with him, but not if he's just feeling sorry for me.”

Jehan smiled considerately. “This may come as a shock considering how much weight he puts on helping the abased, but Enjolras isn’t one to pity. To treat someone better after understanding a situation and realizing he’d jumped to conclusions, sure, but he’d sooner rampage for someone else’s sake than pity them.”

Grantaire snorted a bit at that, but he mulled over the new information carefully. After a moment, Jehan offered, “Do you want to go eat cupcakes and feel bad?” Grantaire nodded. Fuck yeah, he wanted to eat cupcakes and feel bad.

*

Tuesday’s meeting was, for the most part, normal. Joly and Bossuet weren’t there, which Musichetta explained was because Joly felt under the weather, but their obviously missing presence only made the group a _bit_ less raucous than usual.

Since the turnout was smaller, they decided to compress a bit—Jehan and Feuilly joined Grantaire, Éponine, and Marius with their backs to the bar; while Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel occupied the table directly in front of them. To everyone else’s cheer, Marius and Courfeyrac had brought some of Grantaire’s cupcakes to share. Musichetta put a few in a box to take home for her boys, and Éponine grabbed one for Gavroche.

To Grantaire’s relief, Enjolras seemed to find them satisfactory. After taking a bite out of a chocolate cupcake, he looked up at Grantaire with blissful awe. It felt a bit backwards to be on the receiving end of such border-veneration, but he wasn’t going to complain. Not when a spot of his chocolate icing was being licked off Enjolras’ lips, and not when Enjolras looked subtly pleased when Grantaire enjoyed one of the vanillas. Certainly not when the two of them exchanged sneaky little smiles over a shared secret.

With the date of the rally just on the horizon, most of the meeting was spent looking over Enjolras' final draft, passing copies out to everyone so they could skim it over. The only thing Grantaire had to nitpick at was Enjolras’ allusion to the idea that mankind is inherently good. A short debate ensued, but it was less intense than their usual arguments. No less passionate on Enjolras' end, but more... playful? Rather than ending the discussion with a fearsome scowl, he only regarded Grantaire with exasperation in the form of a mild glare before continuing on the matter at hand.

Beyond that point, though, the speech looked good. Really good. Grantaire could hardly wait to hear Enjolras speak the words aloud. He hadn’t heard him in what their friends called ‘rally mode’ yet—though apparently it was similar to what he'd overheard them dubbing 'Grantaire mode'—but he had a feeling that Cicero himself would pale in comparison.

They decided on a rally cry then—because what's a protest without people chanting in perfect unison?—and settled on one that Feuilly had come up with and Enjolras had been particularly enthusiastic about. (He’d never admit it, but the blatant bro-crush on Feuilly had gotten Grantaire the tiniest bit jealous until he realized that it was more of an intense admiration and respect than anything. Besides, he wasn't sure that Enjolras would recognize romance or sexuality if it waved a picket sign in his face. Then again, his mind whispered _alluring_ in his ear, and he suppressed a faint blush and decided not to jump to conclusions.)

After the meeting and before Enjolras could approach him for anything, Éponine drained the rest of her drink and stood, grabbing Grantaire by the arm. “You, my kitchen, cookies,” she commanded, bitter over Grantaire baking for his roommates before he made anything for her. He turned to raise a hand in goodbye at the rest of them, which they all returned, including Enjolras.

Grantaire hadn't yet seen Éponine's apartment, but it suited her well enough to immediately feel familiar and homey. It was small, only a living room with a connected kitchen and a short hallway with three doors—two beds, one bath. The decor was far less chic than Marius and Courfeyrac's, with mismatched furniture that clashed but fit together like a patchwork quilt. It was thrown together and seemingly plain, but Grantaire was certain that every bit of furnishing had a history and that the walls had dozens of stories to tell, just like its inhabitants.

Gavroche was lounging on the small couch—a tan and floral piece that looked like it'd been stolen from a nursing home—and was intently button-smashing on a beat up PSP. “R, welcome to our lair,” he greeted without looking up to see them come through the door. Grantaire swore the kid had super powers.

“Homework?” Éponine prompted, and Gavroche sighed in that sullen, tetchy way typical of pre-teens.

“Already done,” he intoned. Éponine nodded and ruffled his dusty-blonde hair on her way into the small kitchen, ignoring his protests. The act struck Grantaire as borderline motherly, and he took a moment to recognize just how much Éponine had matured. He distantly wondered if anyone ever mistook Gavroche for her son, with their similar olive skin and sharp eyes. With the way she took care of him, she almost might as well have been.

The new mother comparison was only strengthened when he went into the kitchen, a tiny hall-like space that was just barely wide enough across for the oven to open, and saw Éponine pulling out an apron. The illusion was shattered, however, when she tossed it at him and hopped up to sit on the counter. “I know you have like, two pairs of jeans. Protect them.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and hung the apron on his neck. As he tied it around his waist, he noticed Éponine quietly snickering, lips tightly pressed together. Though he wasn't sure he wanted to know, he looked down to see that the apron had a graphic of a buff body wearing a speedo. He sighed and gave her a deadpan look, and her snickering turned into outright cackling as she nearly fell off the counter top. Yeah, that whole motherly thing was dead in a ditch by now.

Once Éponine had collected herself, they began pulling bowls and ingredients out, Grantaire taking every opportunity to strike a ridiculous pose with his new hot bod. Of course it was during one of those poses—Grantaire leaning against the cabinets dramatically with one hand in his hair and the other splayed on the counter top while his leg stretched out across the narrow room, foot up on the opposite counter—that Gavroche decided to walk in. He stopped in the door frame and whistled.

“What cookin', good lookin'?”

Grantaire turned pointedly to Éponine. “Are you teaching him these things?” She shrugged blithely and opened the fridge, while Gavroche snorted

“I've got other sources, you know. Anyway, really, what are you making?”

“None of your business, kid,” Éponine answered as she pulled out a carton of eggs. “Because you've got to go sleep so you can get up and learn shit tomorrow.” Gavroche groaned. “I brought you a present and I'll let you eat it at breakfast in the morning, and then take some of this to school to have at lunch,” she tempted, and Gavroche relented, though not without a sulky glare.

“Night, Gav,” Grantaire said, still in the same dramatic position. Gavroche waved and traipsed back through the living room then down the hall and into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. “You sure he's not just going to sneak out the window and climb the fire escape to hang out on the roof or something? Because I know I would.”

“Oh no, monkey boy's tried that one before,” Éponine said wryly. “So I made him think the middle-aged couple down the hall likes to have romantic starlit sex up there. Now he won't go near the place.”

Grantaire snorted, but stopped to peer at her oddly when she put a wrapped stick of butter down her shirt and lodged it between her breasts. She shrugged. “Gotta get it to room temperature somehow.”

While they measured and mixed their ingredients, Éponine told Grantaire anecdotes about her life that was really far more extraordinary than she gave herself credit for. She worked two jobs these days: one at a boutique that was owned by a sweet old lady but got the most annoying customers (“All posh fuckers and obnoxious tourists,” she grumbled), and another that she had previously described to Grantaire as “top secret.” Now, she admitted that she had beefed up her computer skills and ended up becoming a freelance data broker, gathering information to build profiles for organizations and individuals alike.

“I'm safe about it,” she defended at Grantaire's dubious look. “Hardly any hacking involved, promise. 'Sides, it's pretty fun, I get decent money out of it, and it can be pretty damn useful for ABC stuff. And I've got friends in the business anyway; we look out for our own.”

That was when story time began, and when Grantaire discovered that Éponine was associates with Montparnasse. Grantaire didn't believe in fate, but this whole small world thing was getting a little weird, and all the coincidences seemed rather determined to line up with Jehan's “meant to be” theory. (But that made Grantaire uncomfortable, because “it's meant to be” sounded an awful lot like expectations to him, so he adamantly stuffed the concept into a tiny metal box and hid it away).

“You know, Bossuet and Joly are convinced he's a spy,” Grantaire commented. “Guess they weren't too far off the mark, huh?”

“Yeah well I'm sure they imagine him a lot cooler than he is,” Éponine snorted. “I know he looks suave and shit, but it's all a front. The guy's a fucking dork.” At Grantaire's doubtful expression, she cited, “He subtly mothers everyone but then oversells that he could _totally_ kill us if he wanted to, he has a year-long countdown to Paris Fashion Week, he plays video games with Gavroche, gets over-competitive at Mario Party, he got the kid a PSP and regularly gives him new games for it, and his phone background is a picture of ducklings cuddling with a cat.”

Grantaire decided that Montparnasse was an alright guy.

They ended up making enough cookie dough for two trays, so they filled up the one they had and dug out two spoons to take care of the rest.

“So,” Éponine said around a gooey mouthful, “we've got our comfort food, we're sitting on the floor in a tiny ass kitchen, and it's past midnight. Tell me what your problem is.”

Grantaire raised his brow. “You got a few hours?” Éponine moved as if to hit him with her spoon. “Alright, alright,” he relented, shoving a spoon of cookie dough in his mouth.

“This have to do with whatever happened with Enjolras when he kept you after the other day and the whole cupcake thing?” (Éponine had nearly cried laughing when Grantaire told her about Enjolras and the cupcakes. He appreciated that she wasn't continuing to laugh about it, instead restraining her amusement down to a smug smirk.)

Grantaire sighed. “I told him about Istanbul,” he admitted, and Éponine sobered immediately.

“Shit,” she muttered seriously, and Grantaire nodded before eating another spoonful of raw dough.

Éponine was the only other person who knew about the Istanbul incident. He'd gone back to France one other time during his travels, and that was when he'd appeared at Éponine's front door with a half-drained bottle of whiskey and the light missing from his eyes. She'd already moved out of her parents' house by then, only remaining in town for Gavroche's sake, so for a few weeks she housed him in her shitty one room apartment and kept him from falling apart completely. She knew how bad it was; she'd been there to witness him at his lowest.

“He was talking to me and I told him about traveling and then we went off on an argument because that's just how we are, and then I ended up telling him about what happened.” Now that he'd started, Grantaire couldn't stop the words from flowing out, desperate to tell someone. “He fucking _held my hand, '_ Ponine _,_ who the hell does that, just fucking holds your hand out of nowhere?

“And then the next morning he shows up and he's all civilized and shit, and I mean it's nice, believe me, it's fucking amazing, but I just—I don't want to be treated like a trauma victim. By anyone.”

Because while Grantaire would (reluctantly) admit that he was probably a little bit traumatized, and maybe somewhat fucked up, he didn't want anyone putting on kid gloves for him, especially not Enjolras. “Jehan said that Enjolras doesn't do pity, but how can they know for certain that he doesn't see me differently?”

Desperate to shut himself up, Grantaire crammed more cookie dough in his mouth. Éponine leaned over to bump their shoulders together and said assuredly, “None of them would pity you, and none of them would ever see you any differently than they do now.” She thought for a second before amending, “Well, I guess Enjolras might see you a _little_ differently, but that's just because he only ever saw you being a drunken heckler before.”

“Gee, thanks,” Grantaire said dryly. “Can you really be sure, though?”

“Well I mean, they never treated me any different than they would anyone else.” Grantaire's eyes widened.

“You mean they all know about your family.” She nodded. “Seriously? I mean, that's the sort of thing you've always kept to yourself—I wouldn't even know if I hadn't met you when you were climbing out your own window to steal medical supplies.” Grantaire hadn't let her go through with that, of course, instead using his own funds to purchase the cold medicine that one of the children had so desperately needed. (It was early in his travels, so his budget wasn't quite as tight yet.)

Éponine shrugged. “I did tell you that Enjolras was the one to help me get Gavroche.”

Grantaire tensed as a cold spike shot through his chest. “He told them,” he guessed lowly, but Éponine shook her head rapidly.

“No, jesus, no! In fact when he first introduced me, the poor bastard was struggling to come up with a cover story and grasping at straws for four minutes 'til I felt sorry for the fucker and came clean.”

The idea of Enjolras flustered and stumbling over an increasingly outrageous story as the rest of Les Amis listened patiently made Grantaire snicker, the previous anxiety all but forgotten.

“Anyway,” she continued, “Enjolras is a nice person when he remembers to be. All you've done is remind him.”

He mulled over that while they both chewed another bite of delicious raw egg and flour, before finally saying, “We shouldn't let Joly know about this.”

“Oh, fuck no.”

*

Grantaire ended up only feeling mildly nauseated in the end. Fairly positive that he wouldn't want to eat another chocolate chip cookie for at least a month, he wrapped a few in paper towels to take back for Courfeyrac and Marius, who happily devoured them when he got home. (“Whoa, you don't look so hot. You and Éponine have a few too many?” “Too many spoons of cookie dough, yeah.”)

It turned out that Éponine was put off cookies for a bit as well, because she brought about half of them to Friday's meeting claiming that “Gavroche is enough of a little devil on his own, he doesn't need this much extra sugar in his life.” That evening, Grantaire discovered that Enjolras hadn't just eaten three of the cupcakes because they were delicious, but because he evidently had a major sweet tooth. Only once he'd eaten a shocking amount of cookies (and made Grantaire question the laws of the universe in relation to sweets-intake and body shape because _how the hell_ ) did he begin the official part of the meeting.

“The rally is less than a week away. Seeing as it's on Wednesday, we'll be skipping Tuesday evening's meeting, so this is our last chance to go over the plan. Combeferre?”

Combeferre picked it up from there, adjusting his glasses before folding his hands on the table. “In case those of you with specific roles don't remember them, we'll go over them again. Feuilly and Bahorel, scout ahead; Éponine and Gavroche, lookout; Joly, van and medical supplies; Musichetta, home base.”

“We'll be taking the usual approach,” Enjolras continued. “Meet here early to sync, then head out to arrive at the location separately at different times.”

Grantaire, though grateful for the explanation of what “the usual approach” entailed (and a bit surprised that Enjolras seemed to have remembered that it was necessary), raised a couple of fingers from the neck of his drink. “Sync?”

“Watches,” Courfeyrac explained, grabbing Combeferre's arm and holding it up to display a classy timepiece with brown leather, a moon phase complication, and what looked to be a Qibla compass. “We synchronize them the day of to make sure we've all got the same time.”

“Mm, a good idea,” Grantaire nodded. “Except that I don't happen to own a watch.” Enjolras furrowed his brows in quizzical judgment. “Hey, it's a goddamn miracle I have a phone.”

“You can use one of mine, I have a couple extra,” Marius offered, and Courfeyrac snorted for some reason.

“Good, thank you Marius,” Enjolras nodded curtly. “Now that that's sorted...”

After the meeting (during which they went over what all to expect, probably mostly for Grantaire's sake, which made him feel slightly uncomfortable but grateful nonetheless), Grantaire went back to the apartment and followed Marius past the kitchenette and down the hall.

Whenever he walked past Marius' open door in the hallway, the bedroom looked fairly tidy; the bed was always neatly made and the floor was fully visible, unlike Courfeyrac's hazard of a living space. Once he was inside, however, he was able to see that all the mess had just been shoved under the bed and behind the dresser, and he was sure that the closet door hid another disaster zone.

He followed Marius over to the wooden dresser and magnanimously ignored the sock sticking out from behind it. Marius pulled a drawer open to reveal a wide array of expensive-looking watches, all arranged in neat rows like a shop display. _A couple extra, he said..._ Grantaire stared down at them for a moment then looked back up at Marius, whose ears had gained a florid tinge.

“My grandfather's never gotten me anything but watches for gifts...” he explained sheepishly.

Amusedly accepting the reason, Grantaire examined the timepieces and selected a black and bronze one with exposed gears in the face. “Thanks,” he said sincerely as he admired the piece. Grantaire had never been one to have things that could be considered luxurious, or even just _nice._ While holding something so out of his price range given to him by a friend made him feel entirely out of his depth, it was still somehow pleasant.

Marius slid the drawer shut and smiled. “It's no problem! We have batteries and a tiny screwdriver in the kitchen.” Marius exited the room, and Grantaire stared at the watch's gears a moment longer before following.

*

Throughout the countdown of days until the rally, the members of Les Amis were buzzing with anticipation. Hanging out Saturday night, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were even more outgoing than usual (they both had a hand on Joly at all times as if to keep him from vibrating out of his skin with anxious excitement). During a Sunday walk along the Seine that he was invited to join, Courfeyrac was bouncing on the balls of his feet ahead of them on the edges of walkways, precariously balancing between solid ground and calm waters, while Jehan watched and scribbled verses down their arm with starry eyes. Even Combeferre's calm demeanor as he walked beside Grantaire was tinted with barely controlled zeal. Grantaire, while for the most part apprehensive, found the mood to be somewhat contagious.

When he went to the park Monday afternoon, unable to concentrate on any particular song and instead strumming improvised rhythms rapid as the group's collective pulse, he came across Gavroche, surprisingly collected and displaying his typical attitude of determination and an almost child-like excitement. He wasn't sure whether it was because Gavroche was secretly more mature than all of them (which wouldn't be surprising) or that the boy was just constantly excited about life to the point that there was no big difference. Either way it only made Grantaire's music more feverish, with the wild abandon of a dithyramb, playing worship for his Apollo. Oddly enough, he received a lot of tips that day.

Tuesday resulted in several of their friends loitering about the apartment. Grantaire wondered if they shared the strange off-put feeling from not having a meeting to look forward to that evening. For the others, it would make sense; Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had formed Les Amis de l'ABC in Enjolras' first year at university, and the past years would have instilled hard-to-break habits in the members. Grantaire, however, only had about a month behind him.

That fact felt strange in itself. He wasn't sure whether his time in Paris had felt more like days or an eternity, whether he felt that he'd only arrived yesterday or like he'd known these people for his entire life and beyond. It had only been weeks, yet the tug of wanderlust deep in his gut sometimes had the strong pull of many months stuck in one place.

The pull was strong that day, intensified by the shared anticipation for what was to come, and it eventually dragged Grantaire outside for a walk, waving off Jehan's subtle concern with a smile and leaving his knapsack on his bed to tether him.

It was a cool evening, the autumn chill steadily pushing out the warmth of summer, and Grantaire zipped up his jacket, colored the same green that the trees were losing. He absently hoped he would stay long enough for the leaves to change fully so that he could capture the warm colors of the Parisian streets and parks. In only he could afford oil paints (though it had been ages since he had a chance to work with them and was probably a bit rusty).

As the sun retreated and the lights of the city blinked awake, Grantaire realized that his feet had looped through the tangled streets to approach the Musain, though from a different direction than usual. Even though Musichetta had closed for the evening to rest up for the next day (at Joly's insistence, despite her not actually going to the protest-proper), and even though a deep and primal part of him was trying to tug him beyond the horizon, Grantaire's body surprisingly remained a creature of habit.

More surprising, though, was the head of messily pulled back blonde curls that he saw there, sat outside the door and wearing a red hoodie and jeans, looking as if he too had simply wandered out the door on a whim.

Enjolras had one leg out on the ground in front of him and the other bent up, hand resting on his knee with a cigarette between two fingers. He looked up when Grantaire stopped next to him, and he noticed that he was wearing— _god have mercy_ —a pair of glasses, its frames thick and slightly rounded; a style worn by 1950s men and modern hipsters but never worn as well as this. He'd never seen Enjolras look so casual, so _human_ , yet somehow it only added to his beauty, giving what seemed purely holy a more natural and real appearance.

Grantaire ungracefully collapsed against the wall next to him with about a foot's distance between them, slouching with his legs spread wide in front of him and his black hair messily hanging in his face, their appearances a striking juxtaposition. Enjolras didn't say anything, only pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it open toward Grantaire in offering.

“I didn't expect you to smoke,” Grantaire said, not looking away from Enjolras' face.

Without putting the pack away, Enjolras shrugged. “Mostly just when I'm stressed.”

“And right now?”

Enjolras paused in thought before answering, “For good luck.”

Uttering a breath of amusement, Grantaire took one of the proffered cigarettes. “You never really struck me as the type to rely on luck.”

“It's not a reliance,” Enjolras corrected as he slipped the carton back into his pocket. “I only figure there's no harm in it. And what about you?”

Grantaire, cigarette unlit and idle between his fingers, raised a brow. “What _about_ me?”

“Luck. Do you believe in it?”

He chuckled sardonically and shook his head. “You should know by now, Apollo. I don't believe in anything.” Grantaire looked ahead and raised his hand to let the cigarette rest between his lips, Enjolras watching him peculiarly in the corner of his eye. “All I believe in now,” said Grantaire, turning to face him expectantly, “is my need for a light.”

Enjolras continued to regard him with that odd look in the dim lighting, before he brought his own cigarette to his mouth and leaned in to touch its embers to the other unlit tip. Grantaire's eyes widened, Enjolras brought so close by the half-burned paper that he didn't dare to breathe.

The smoke that rose in wisps between them doubled, and Enjolras moved away as if nothing had happened. Grantaire was stuck in place for a moment before he dazedly leaned back. He needed a drink, but a smoke would do, so he inhaled deeply (the first smoke after a long time without always began with an inhale so deep that the familiar swirling burn would fill his entire body) and faced forward, his eyes still shifted to the side to watch Enjolras.

He was looking straight forward with a gaze that was sharp but directed at nothing, deep in thought, profile illuminated by the yellow-orange glow of streetlamps. The excitement that had been so apparent in their friends was barely noticeable in him, his fervor quietly smoldering as if waiting to be stirred to life. Only the hard edge to his eyes revealed the revolutionary determination that Grantaire was sure could burn the world down and rebuild it alone.

For once, the two of them were quiet. No arguing, no debating, none of the casual conversation they had been slowly learning to make with each other; only a comfortable lull that made Grantaire feel like the area around them was separate from all else, a pocket that remained static and peaceful while the rest of the world moved around it. Paris could go up in flames, but the only ashes they'd notice would be the ones falling from their fingers, and the only smoke would be that which left their mouths.

They sat like that until Grantaire's cigarette had burned down to the filter. Enjolras, who had remained sitting there even after he'd stubbed out his own, stood and said, “Combeferre is at yours.”

Grantaire looked up at him (modern Apollo silhouetted by old streetlamps, an orange outline of electric light, the bulb behind his head a halo) and nodded as he stood and mourned the loss of their pocket of the universe.

*

It turned out that it wasn't only Combeferre who'd migrated to the apartment. When Grantaire had left earlier, the only people present were Marius, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan, and Feuilly. But it seemed that everyone else had appeared in his absence, spilling over the couch and recliner and lounging on the floor where the coffee table had been sitting (it was now over in the corner), watching a movie on the television set that Grantaire had never actually seen turned on.

“We started without you,” Courfeyrac called from his perch on the back of the couch, legs on either side of where Jehan sat as he idly braided their hair. He glanced away from the screen to see the two of them coming in together and waggled his eyebrows, though Grantaire wasn't completely sure as to whom it was directed toward.

Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet were all somehow crammed into the recliner, while the others were sat on, perched on, or on the floor around the couch. Grantaire joined Éponine where she sat on the floor by one arm of the couch, whispering, “What'd I miss?”

“Well, it's a weird art film, so besides Gavroche falling asleep after five minutes,” she gestured behind her where her brother was passed out leaning against the couch, “hell if I know. And what did _I_ miss?” She glanced meaningfully between him and Enjolras, who had perched next to Courfeyrac and behind Combeferre. Grantaire exhaled an incredulous laugh.

“Hell if I know,” he echoed, and they both returned their attention to the bizarre images on the screen.

It was fairly late once the film ended (and Grantaire still couldn't tell you what it was about beyond some vague impressions of existentialism and the journey of life, death, and rebirth or some equally convoluted bullshit), so Courfeyrac and Marius got up to get extra bedding while the others moved the couch over to the wall without a single word on the matter. Éponine hoisted Gavroche up and dropped him in the recliner, the boy not even stirring. “Kid sleeps like the dead,” she'd explained at Grantaire's look, and he certainly believed her.

“So much for meeting up at the Musain in the morning, huh?” Grantaire quipped while his friends dumped bedding on the floor.

“Nah, this happens every time,” Joly testified cheerfully from the couch's fold out bed (which Grantaire hadn't known existed), Musichetta and Bossuet on either side of him and nodding. That explained all the different colored toothbrushes and cups that Grantaire had noticed in the bathroom closet.

“Not even sure why we bother planning on meeting up at all, at this point,” Bahorel joked as he changed his shirt (which had to have been his own seeing as no one else's clothes would fit him. Grantaire glanced at everyone else and noticed that they all seemed to just keep some of their own clothes in the apartment). Enjolras rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

While Grantaire felt a bit bad for having a proper bed to himself, the rest of Les Amis were apparently content spreading out on the floor. Rather than take their own bedding and arrange themselves around the room, they instead piled it all together in the middle of the floor to lie down amongst each other. Grantaire felt kind of ridiculous for maybe being a little bit jealous.

Marius and Courfeyrac came back from the hall with their own pillows and blankets, though, and joined in on the pile. Grantaire stood awkwardly by the stairs, and when Éponine griped at him to hurry up and get his bedding and change, he tried not to look too eager.

*

They all fell asleep in fairly normal positions that night, but when Grantaire woke up to the morning light leaking in through the window, it was with Éponine's arm on his stomach and Marius clinging to his leg. He moved Éponine's limb, careful as she was a much lighter sleeper than her brother, and sat up to survey the room, realizing then that he was the first one awake.

Beside him, Jehan was practically on top of Courfeyrac, who was at an angle with his head near where Grantaire's shoulder had been. His arms were wrapped around Jehan while his legs were down by Marius, who was a little lower and attached to Grantaire's leg like a koala, face pressed against his thigh.

Éponine lay to his right, loosely curled up on her side with her back just brushing against Combeferre (who was sleeping serenely on his back) and her blanket thrown off to land on Bahorel's leg above her. On his stomach and spread out like a gently snoring starfish, Bahorel's foot had just barely missed Grantaire's head while one arm was stretched down next to Combeferre and the other hand was planted on Feuilly's face. Feuilly was close to the edge of the bedding pile and near Bossuet, who had apparently fallen out of bed in the night and was now comfortably snoozing on the hardwood.

Next to Combeferre with Bahorel's arm between the two of them was Enjolras, who was curled up with the top of his head just poking out from under his blanket— _oh god that's fucking adorable._ It was far too early for Grantaire to deal with this shit.

He gently extracted his leg from Marius' sleepy clutches, the freckled boy whining softly before rolling over and clinging to Courfeyrac's calf with a happy sigh. Grantaire tried not to snicker too loudly at that, then carefully stepped over and around his friends until he had a clear path to the bathroom.

After changing his clothes, Grantaire decided to make like a good freeloading host and get the coffee maker going. He noticed a couple of boxes filled with breakfast pastries on the counter, recognizing them as the ones that Musichetta usually sold in the mornings at the café, and placed them on trays to put them in the oven at its lowest setting.

Grantaire was sipping his coffee—whiskey added, of course—and nibbling his breakfast as he stared across the room out the window, when he heard sputtering and a hiss of “Goddammit Bahorel with your fucking monster hands, I swear to...” He tried not to laugh as Feuilly trudged across the room, and instead gestured toward the coffee maker's fresh brew and the treasure trove of pastries, which earned him a tired and grateful smile that he felt he was not worthy of. Combeferre followed close behind, and Grantaire figured he now knew who the group's early risers were.

Combeferre and Feuilly both changed clothes and joined him at the breakfast bar to eat and talk (Grantaire described different countries' typical breakfasts, which Feuilly especially found fascinating), and the rest of Les Amis rose one by one. To Grantaire's mild surprise, Enjolras was the last to get up. With his hair tousled in a way that nearly made Grantaire choke and his glasses tragically replaced by the contacts that Combeferre had brought along for him, he groggily filled a mug with coffee and stared at it blankly for a minute as if deciding what to do with it before adding a couple spoons of sugar and a heavy splash of cream.

Once everyone was happily caffeinated (minus Gavroche, whose whining would never convince Éponine to allow him coffee) (Bahorel sneaked him a sip of his anyway), it was nearing eleven, and the relaxed air was beginning to vibrate with anticipation. With the excitement building, they all decided to synchronize their watches, if nothing else just to give them the illusion that they were doing something. “10:54,” Enjolras said with his eyes on his simple black timepiece. “3, 2, 1, _sync_.”

A few restless minutes later, Bahorel and Feuilly went on to scout ahead with the promise that they'd send a group text if there was anything of note. Feuilly gave Enjolras a nod while Bahorel jokingly saluted, and they shut the door behind them.

They all attempted to occupy themselves for a while, people staring at the same pages of books and magazines or tapping around on their phones. Grantaire tried to draw, but his brain couldn't decide if it wanted to produce the vivid image of Enjolras leading them to victory or all his friends bleeding on the ground. He gave up on that rather quickly, and instead elected to play cards with Courfeyrac and Jehan, which led to the confirmation of Grantaire's theory that Jehan was a fucking menace at poker.

Eventually, when Gavroche looked ready to spontaneously combust, Enjolras and Éponine gave him permission to leave and he bolted out the door, probably headed to some look out point that the rest of them didn't even know existed. Éponine followed after about ten minutes, giving Grantaire a reassuring look that only did a bit to calm his nerves. Joly and Bossuet left a few minutes later to get the van, and Musichetta headed for the Musain. After twenty-five minutes more, Grantaire decided that the buzzing air was too stifling and volunteered to leave next. Enjolras nodded at him with a fire in his eyes that was comfortably warm rather than a blazing inferno, and Grantaire nodded back then left so that he could breathe again.

He did his best to look casual as he walked, and cursed to himself when he realized that his flask was still in his knapsack, which he'd left at the apartment for safe keeping. It was incredibly tempting to stop somewhere for a bit of liquid courage, but then he imagined getting drunk and missing the protest, Enjolras finding him drunk off his ass and giving him a devastating look of disappointment through the smokey haze of a dimly lit bar. The thought was too mortifying to even consider, so he continued on his way instead.

He elected to take the Métro part of the way, but walked for the last stretch, until he found an empty bench near the square. He pulled a pair of sunglasses and in-ear headphones out of his jacket pocket, lay across the bench with an arm behind his head and his feet kicked up, and waited.

A couple of his friends walked past him during their slow migration to the venue; Marius didn't even notice him, but later Courfeyrac saw him with his aviators and ridiculously casual position and had to desperately hold back his amusement. Unable to resist, Grantaire lowered his sunglasses with a sleazy smirk and winked. Courfeyrac had to turn and walk away before the laughter could tear itself out of him.

20 minutes before the set time, he decided to make his way over. He pulled out his phone and took a look at his messages for show, then sat up and stretched, putting his headphones and sunglasses away and strolling down the sidewalk.

During his time in Paris, the Place de la République was one of many sights he still hadn'tseen. He'd seen pictures of course, but it was much more impressive in person. The square was airy and balanced; the statue at its center (white stone with elegant details and topped with a bronze figure of Marianne, tinged green with age) was an incredible work of art that also turned out to be _fucking huge_. He distantly noted that he wouldn't even need to pretend he was a tourist—he had the gawking stare down pat.

Glancing down at his watch, he checked the time: 2:24. His stomach clenched in time with each _tick_ , and he tried not to be too obvious as he continued to periodically check his wrist. Other members of Les Amis were milling about unassumingly, the square more filled than it would be on any other day. He glanced down; his watch ticked. As 2:30 grew nearer, the members drew a bit closer to the monument, anticipation thrumming in their veins collectively.

Between the gaps in the crowd he could see Enjolras (who wore his red leather jacket and a pristine white shirt) nod minutely, both a signal and reassurance to any of the members who could see him. Grantaire was practically holding his breath, and he glanced around to see that the others in his sight looked to be doing the same. His watch ticked.

Jehan looked like they were taking pictures, Joly and Bossuet were swinging their joined hands between them, and Bahorel was idly chewing gum, but he could see in their postures that they weren't as calm as they appeared. (His watch ticked.) There was exhilarated passion curling up their spines, determination set in their bones, their bodies fine-tuned to everything around them.

Grantaire checked the time. 2:29.

His watch ticked.

As soon as the minute hand hit the half hour, they shot into action, Grantaire's heart thrumming in his ears like war drums accompanied by feet pounding on the stone below them.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac ran to the monument and climbed atop the stone ballot box with surprising grace while the rest of them rushed to their positions around the lion and steps at the bottom. Joly pulled a megaphone out of his satchel to toss it up to where Enjolras was just standing up, and he caught it with practiced ease.

Once in position, Grantaire turned to face outward along with the other members, and was shocked to see that an incredible crowd had already formed before them. He heard the megaphone crackle to life behind him, and felt his body crackle with it.

Then, Enjolras began to speak, and a hush fell over the audience.

“My fellow Frenchman, Parisians, _humans,_ ” he began, and Grantaire could remember him saying _this isn't just a matter of rights, it's a matter of_ humanity, _it's so much more_. “We have come here today to stand for the rights of humanity; to rise for the justice and safety that every person born into this world deserves...”

As the speech continued, Grantaire felt a cocktail of adrenaline and euphoria at the voice that crept up from behind and curled around him, white-hot and branding him as Enjolras' forever. Even without visuals, his presence was dignified and powerful. His words during their meetings were made of gold, but now his voice also resonated with underlying steel, too strong to ever be challenged by any mortal.

“Do not just think of them as refugees, slapping on a label that makes them out to be _others—_ think of them as people. People who have had to run for their lives from the place they've called home. And who are we to not welcome them into _our_ home? Who are we to turn them away, or leave them shivering out on the doorstep?”

Not even the grainy filter was enough to dampen the rich intensity of his words, as he drew in passersby who weren't even part of the protest to begin with. Unable to continue to keep his eyes away, Grantaire turned his head to look back and felt his breath leave him completely.

Enjolras stood front and center on the stone ballot box below Marianne, who towered majestically as if presenting him to this unworthy world, holding his megaphone as she held her olive branch. Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood to either side with expressions just as valiant and fearless; Liberté and Egalité, seraphim guarding the throne of God, severe in their loyalty. Grantaire took note of the rest of Les Amis as well, where they stood scattered on the steps—Fraternité, lieutenants prepared to serve and protect. His heart jumped at the realization that he stood with them.

With the goddess of liberty herself standing tall behind him, Enjolras continued, “Who are we to beat down upon these people—to attack them with riot gear before turning around and claiming to serve and protect?” There were a few whoops from the audience, and he only burned brighter at the encouragement as he went on.

He stood proudly with his men around him, weaving words of courage and hope and indignation with sunlight shining down between clouds and illuminating him as if the universe itself recognized that he deserved a stage, as if the cosmos knew that it was in presence of Apollo. Looking out at the crowd of enraptured faces, though, Grantaire thought that Enjolras could even be Zeus himself—the god of gods, reigning from the peak of Mount Olympus. Enjolras probably wouldn't want that of course; he would say that even the Heavens should have a democratically elected representative, and divinity is no excuse for monarchy. (Grantaire thought that the other gods would have elected him anyway.)

“There is no reason for us to not treat these refugees, these victims, these _human beings_ , in the same way that we would wish to be helped in their place. No reason beyond cruelty and selfishness.”

There were a few more cheers of agreement. Looking back out at the audience, Grantaire froze when he noticed a police officer toward the edge of the crowd. However, even she looked to be utterly enchanted by the words that slithered through the spaces between bodies and crept into their very souls.

“To those with the power to help, but instead choose to hurt: let _us_ choose,” Enjolras spoke, deliberate and forceful. His voice was rising, and so were the hairs on the back of Grantaire's neck. “Let us choose to give shelter and warmth to those who have none. Let us come together with the compassion that we hold as humans... The compassion that we hold, as _people of France!_ ”

At the shout of his final word, Enjolras raised his fist into the air, and everything erupted. The crowd cheered, roaring with agreement and inspiration. The lieutenants began their chant, which the audience quickly joined.

“ _Vive la France, Vivent le peuples!_ ”

Grantaire followed along with his eyes still on the orator above them, whose fist remained raised as he yelled, megaphone hanging down at his side so that his voice both blended with the mass yet stood apart, bright and unwavering. In the midst of the cries, when Enjolras met Grantaire's eyes and smiled fiercely with a sharp glint of prideful adrenaline, he came to realize something beautiful and terrifying.

Grantaire had found something—some _one—_ that he actually believed in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A Les Mis fic in which a protest actually goes well and no one gets hurt?! My god, what a turn of events.
> 
> My speech writing skills only go so far, so hopefully the bits of Enjolras' that made it through R's poetic inner monologue were at least halfway decent.
> 
> I was looking up watches for reference and ended up reading about watch complications and models for like ten minutes. Important research.
> 
> Outing Montparnasse as a fucking dork was actually added in after I finished the chapter, but it ended up being one of my favorite bits. That and the smoking scene with Grantaire and Enjolras, which wasn't supposed to be as long as it is but turned into this flowery quiet scene that I honestly really love.
> 
> Tumblr user pertatoe drew some [fucking awesome art of the smoking scene](http://pertatoe.tumblr.com/post/158504116059/the-smoking-scene-from-inquisitivelizard-s) and I love it so much.


	6. The Way I Tend To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's better than an opera

Miraculously enough, the protest didn't end in a stampede or otherwise go to hell. Even when the group got a warning text from Éponine ( _four squad cars, nine minutes away, sirens not on,_ it said, and Grantaire felt his blood chill in his veins), Combeferre's calm voice directed the crowd to calmly disperse and act like nothing happened.

“If you've participated in ABC events before, you know the drill.” Compared to Enjolras' voice, he sounded like a welcome rush of cooling water. “If you've not and you're confused or concerned, there are people around you who are willing to help.”

After overseeing the crowd for a moment to make sure everything was going smoothly, Les Amis made their leave as well, following Joly and Bossuet to the innocuous-looking SUV that was parked a couple of minutes away. They crammed themselves in, Joly and Bossuet taking the front while the rest of them squeezed into the two rows of seats behind them, and chatted through their remaining adrenaline on the way to the Musain.

Grantaire ended up in the back row, squeezed in with Feuilly, Combeferre, and Enjolras, with Courfeyrac on the floor in front of them. A few minutes into the drive, Courfeyrac began poking at Grantaire's knee to get his attention. “So, newbie,” Grantaire scrunched his face up at that, “how'd you like your first ABC rally?”

A flood of dramatic verse that probably could have made Jehan tear up ran through Grantaire's head, because really, how else could he describe what he'd just witnessed? He glanced at Enjolras at the other end of the row, his face turned out toward the window. Part of him wanted to sing his praise from the rooftops. Instead, all he could vocally produce was, “It was certainly a spectacle.”

Courfeyrac laughed and nudged at his knee again. “Ah, what singing praise!” he teased, and Grantaire made an effort to laugh along.

The group opened the door to the Musain and their rowdy cheer flooded into the café, Musichetta instantly relaxing as her boys approached her with grins. Éponine was already there waiting for them, and Grantaire sat next to her at the bar. “Gavroche not here?”

Éponine snorted. “God no. 'Post-rally meeting' is just code for afterparty, and that little shit isn't getting anywhere near it.” Probably a wise decision. While the kid could certainly get into plenty of trouble on his own, at least this way he was less likely to somehow get his hands on alcohol and wouldn't be subjected to the questionable influence of their company. (Of course god knew who Gavroche was hanging out with on his own, but he could be trusted to take care of himself. His self-preservation skills more than likely surpassed those of Grantaire, really, though that wasn't necessarily saying a whole lot.)

Everyone settled down on stools and at tables with Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac standing before them. “Personally,” Enjolras began, “I'd consider today to have been a success.”

“Damn right, it was a success!” Bahorel interjected cheerfully, and a few of the others crowed agreement.

“Bahorel hasn't received any contact regarding trouble after we left,” Combeferre noted with a hint of prideful satisfaction, “making this our first event with zero casualties.” The group cheered, Joly seeming especially enthusiastic about having not had to bring out his med kit once. Grantaire tried not to think too hard about the implied past casualties.

“The people seemed receptive for the most part,” Enjolras continued, but Courfeyrac interrupted, “No need to be modest, you had them under your thumb!”

Bossuet nodded in agreement. “Pretty sure I saw a couple of people tearing up.”

“There was a reporter who forgot to snap any photos for a good few minutes,” Feuilly added. Enjolras' lips quirked up with satisfaction, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Regardless, you've all done well,” Enjolras nodded. “Good work today.” He pulled out his chair out to sit, and the group burst into cheers.

Bahorel yelled for shots, and Musichetta was already pouring out a line of them. Though it was only nearing four o'clock, no one seemed to care about the early hour as they all stood along the bar with a shot glass in front of each. Enjolras was dragged up by Courfeyrac, who deposited him between himself and Grantaire. (To his mild surprise, Combeferre lined up at his own free will.)

They all held up their glasses as Feuilly cheered, “Here's to the people!”

“Here's to protests past and those yet to come!” Jehan returned with a delighted blush dusting their cheeks.

Joly and Bossuet cried out together, “Here's to all of us!”

“To us!” everyone echoed, and Grantaire glanced over to give Enjolras a wink before he tossed back his drink, not even seeing his reaction. They all slammed their glasses down in near unison and cheered again, whistles and howls of celebration as some of them ordered more.

“Afterparty tab is always on the grand trio,” said Bahorel, who had leaned around Éponine and then gestured to the three on Grantaire's other side, “so don't hold back!” He slapped Grantaire's back lightly, which for Bahorel meant it was still hard enough to sting. He was sure there was a red hand print left on his skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care about much more than getting himself a good glass of wine and losing himself in the good cheer of his friends.

It'd been a long time since Grantaire attended a party with people he properly knew, much less actually cared about. And yes, at this point he was willing to admit to himself that he did legitimately care for this patchwork crew of oddball activists. He was always aware of the fact that they'd taken him in rather quickly (god knew why), but he wasn't really sure when he'd truly integrated and become a proper member in both their eyes and his own. On one hand it seemed like a slow slide, a change so gradual that he hardly noticed until his sketchbook was filled with charcoal portraits—Bahorel in a stance of exhilarated aggression, Jehan squinting into the middle-distance with their tongue poking out and a pen tapping on their chin, Feuilly folding origami with a stiff napkin, plenty of Enjolras, countless others—but on the other hand it seemed so sudden he couldn't have possibly prevented it, like he just tripped and fell in and that was that.

On yet another hand, he had alcohol to drink and friends to laugh with at the moment, so there was no point in pondering on it just then.

Musichetta went to the back at some point to bring out sandwiches, chips, and a bucket of peanuts which Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Bossuet were trying to toss into each other's mouths while Joly watched with lighthearted griping. “Don't come crying to me when you're blinded by a nut in the eye,” he warned, which of coursed prompted them all to lose their shit.

After a few drinks, Combeferre had removed his sweater and rolled up his cuffs to reveal impressive tattoo sleeves of geometric patterns, planets, dotwork, and moths, and he ended up talking to Feuilly about foreign politics. An odd conversation to drunkenly stumble into, but Grantaire had witnessed and participated in weirder. Éponine and Musichetta were having what Grantaire could only describe as “girl talk,” and he sort of hoped that Cosette would join the line up so that little circle could expand.

Marius got all flushed and sappy after a few oddly-colored cocktails with names that Grantaire was almost certain Musichetta had let Bossuet and Joly make up for the menu. He ended up fumbling through improvised poetry with Jehan, which Grantaire absolutely had to join in on.

“Love is flowers dancing, dotted by dew!” Jehan recited cheerfully.

Marius returned, “Love is flushed cheeks, without liquor to blame!”

“Love parts the seas and strides forth,” said Grantaire, “to punch you in the teeth!” The three cheered and took a drink.

“Oh, oh, listen to this though!” Jehan cleared their throat. “ _Clear eyes, beneath clear brows, gaze out at me, clear, true and lovely things therein I see; yet mystery, past ev'n naming, takes their place, as mine stay pondering on that much-loved face._ ”

Marius clapped enthusiastically, but Grantaire instinctively glanced toward where Enjolras sat at his usual table, sitting on the outskirts of Combeferre and Feuilly's conversation as he idly swirled a half-drained White Russian. He wouldn't think anything of it, would just assume that Enjolras was always pensive and serious after rallies, but Combeferre was occasionally glancing at him inquisitively, only for Enjolras to either wave him off with a tight smile or not even notice.

“R!” Jehan exclaimed to draw his attention back. “Where's your head wandered off to? Come now, my _thief cook cynic, raucous rouge & vivid voltaire_!”

“Are you going to start calling me by lines of Cummings now?” Grantaire teased.

“If that's what it takes to get your attention. Next round, your turn, come up with a subject!”

Grantaire hummed in thought. “Revolution,” he decreed, to which Jehan hummed, “Ooh, topical.”

Marius raised a hand and inquired, “Can I go first?” At their nods, he cleared his throat. “Take up arms, join the battalion with me!”

“Ragtag rebels marching the streets,” Jehan contributed, “raise flags and swords dripping with ire!”

“To end in victory, or glorious fire!”

The three cheered once more after Grantaire's final line and took another drink, but Grantaire's attention was drawn away by the sound of a chair scraping back on the wooden floor. He turned to see Enjolras standing and slipping on his jacket, nodding to Combeferre before clasping his shoulder briefly and heading out the door.

Grantaire watched curiously, then stood as well. “I'm gonna go.”

Jehan pouted slightly, while Marius and fretted, “But what if you fall over and get hurt?”

Forcing nonchalance, Grantaire snorted as he pulled his jacket on. “Please, you need to give me a lot more than this to get me that plastered.”

“Oh, you must be tired from your very first protest! And it was such an energetic one, too, I could see how it could be a bit draining.” Jehan nodded seriously in understanding. “Go rest your weary head, dear Capital R!”

Grantaire smiled, already headed away. “Will do, sweet Jehan!”

As he stepped outside and let the door shut behind him, the evening chill quickly sobered him, seeping through his jacket and into his bones. He swiveled his head and relievedly saw that Enjolras wasn't yet out of sight.

“Enjolras!” he called out, and the other stopped abruptly to turn around. Grantaire jogged toward him, grateful for the nearly-empty side street that the Musain was on, and stopped in front of him, taking a moment to catch his breath. Enjolras watched him blankly with undercurrents of surprise beneath his somewhat icy expression.

 _Clear eyes, beneath clear brows, gaze out at me..._ Jehan's voice echoed in his mind, but Grantaire shoved the thought away, only to realize that he had no real plan as to what he was actually going to say. He merely saw Enjolras leave and followed on an impulse, without a single thought toward planning a course of action.

“Hey, um,” Grantaire struggled, “you alright?” Enjolras stared. “I mean, you seemed a little... off. I thought you'd be celebrating after today, but...” He helplessly gestured to Enjolras, who huffed.

“There's nothing to worry about. I'm just glad you enjoyed the _spectacle_ ,” he bit out, and Grantaire's eyes widened.

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” He grabbed onto Enjolras' arm before he could turn away, trying his damnedest not to revel in the contact. “Is that what this is about?”

Enjolras sighed and glared flatly, and Grantaire thought that if he'd just added a bit of an eye roll he would have almost looked like a petulant teenager. “No, of course not, Grantaire. Your lack of response to the fruits of our labor doesn't matter to me in the least.”

“Hey now, biting sarcasm is _my_ thing,” Grantaire quipped before he could stop himself, and _ah, there's that eye roll._ Enjolras tried to move away, but Grantaire's grip on his arm held fast. “No, no, wait! I promise you that my lackluster response had absolutely nothing to do with you or the protest.”

Enjolras was watching him, so he took that as permission to go on. “I could write an epic on the level of the Iliad about that rally, alright? I could compose a thousand verses of flowery purple prose revering your speech.” He hoped that the unspoken _revering you_ wasn't as clear to Enjolras as it was to him.

“Then why didn't you?”

Grantaire shrugged desperately. “Because I'm an emotionally constipated asshole? Hell if I know. But the point is,” Enjolras didn't look like he was about to move, so Grantaire dropped his hand, “I thought it was amazing. You could fucking part the seas with your words. And I know that sounds sarcastic,” he rushed out at the beginnings of a scowl, “but I promise you it isn't.”

He stared into Enjolras' eyes earnestly, even though it made his chest ache and felt a bit like staring into the sun. Eventually, Enjolras sighed lightly and broke the eye contact as his shoulders relaxed slightly. “I'm sorry for misunderstanding,” he ground out. While the apology sounded forced and almost pained, Grantaire could hear the sincerity in his words.

“No worries,” he shrugged. “And I'm sorry for my incapability of being genuine in everyday conversation.”

Enjolras shook his head, eyes still pointed away, but stayed silent. After a pause, he asked, “So... you _did_ like it?” It almost sounded as if he was looking for reassurance, but why in god's name would Enjolras of all people need validation regarding his orating skills? Nonetheless, Grantaire nodded.

“I thought it was great,” he affirmed. “And I think... I think that if there's anyone who could actually make the world give a shit, it'd probably be you.” The sentiment was about as close to Grantaire's true feelings as he could get without making a break for it, and he still almost wanted to laugh it off and retreat.

But the way Enjolras peeked up and smiled at him—a smile as warm and stunning as the one he'd seen two Sundays ago, only more tender and maybe even thankful, and Grantaire committed it to memory because someday he would immortalize this image on canvas—made it completely worth it.

*

Enjolras started the meeting that Friday by passing out slips of paper and pens. “Since we're still waiting on progress regarding the refugees, we'll go ahead and vote on our next focus. These ballots list issues as suggested by some of you, so mark your vote and drop your folded ballot into the box.” Courfeyrac reached under the table then as Bossuet pounded the table for a drum roll, which halted when he slammed down on his table a square box atrociously decorated with red, white, and blue sequins arranged to resemble the French flag. Grantaire snorted, but quickly pushed his amusement away for the sake of heckling.

“So that's it,” he questioned critically, “one rally and then you're just done with the matter? If you actually want to change something, shouldn't you be doing a bit more than that?”

Enjolras sighed through his nose, but Courfeyrac answered instead. “Oh believe me, Enjolras _wishes_ we were doing more than that,” he teased. “But after you make a move, you have to wait a little bit to gauge the response and let the news and internet spread the word before you can decide on a next step. So that means Enjolras here has to start working on something else so he's not just sitting around twiddling his thumbs.”

Scowling at the mere thought of having such patience, Enjolras continued passing out the ballots. “I'd prefer not to sit idly and just wait for government officials to finally get their heads out of their bourgeois asses,” he grumbled, startling a laugh out of Grantaire. (If Enjolras' scowl immediately dropped to regard him with a subtle smile, Grantaire pushed the detail away so as not to draw hopeful conclusions.)

Grantaire skimmed over the ballot and appraised his options. The Clichy-sous-Bois was a rather complicated topic that got into all sorts of heavy shit, and climate change was just way too broad of an issue for them to do anything about. He snorted at the particularly ambitious “government corruption and unbalanced voting processes.” _Gee, wonder who suggested that one._ As if he could read minds, Enjolras shot him a pointed look to which Grantaire responded with a mock salute as he marked “lack of retribution for harassment on campus.” It seemed pretty achievable, and while they couldn't stop harassment from happening, they could at least try to make sure the sleazy fucks got what was coming to them.

As Combeferre began tallying the votes, the rest of them went back to talking and joking amongst themselves. Soon enough, Combeferre stood to announce that campus harassment had won with six votes. Éponine's face subtly shifted in satisfaction.

Enjolras, to his credit, looked just about as fired up as he would have if government corruption had been selected. “Sexual harassment on the campus that the majority of us attend has, more often than not, gone unpunished, and it seems like at least half the students aren't even aware of the situation. Suggestions on how to approach it?”

Courfeyrac, of course, shouted “PSA!” to resounding groans.

Jehan raised their hand and suggested, “We could start with a public interest campaign? Just to spread the word a bit, get people talking about it before we take any steps to resolve it.” Everyone nodded in agreement and approval.

“Once we've gotten the ball rolling, we could start a petition for the school officials to strengthen and uphold the rules on the matter,” Combeferre suggested.

“Good idea,” Enjolras said with a nod. He was very subtly fidgeting though, and Combeferre sighed lightly.

“And then if they don't listen to that, we can hold an on-campus protest.”

Enjolras relaxed, his face lighting up as he tried to hide his pleasure. “Perfect. So step one, then. Would anyone like to make a suggestion as to how we'll handle the public interest campaign? Besides a public service announcement.” He looked pointedly at Courfeyrac, who pouted.

“Flyers?” Feuilly suggested, and Joly lit up.

“Ooh, with catchy slogans!”

“Maybe we should make them a bit more serious,” Musichetta suggested kindly, and Éponine shook her head.

“ _Way_ more serious. Shock them into listening.”

“Agreed,” Enjolras nodded. “We don't want anyone to take this lightly. As for designing them, any volunteers?”

Grantaire, who was feeling kind of useless as everyone else contributed ideas and opinions, didn't even think before he spoke up. “I'll do it.”

Enjolras looked shocked for a moment, but that was quickly replaced by satisfaction. “Alright then. In the meantime, I'll work on a rough draft for the petition. Bahorel, can I count your law vocabulary for input?” Bahorel assented with a dramatic sigh, and Enjolras nodded before turning his attention back to Grantaire.

“R, just let me know whenever you have a draft ready.” _Holy shit since when does he refer to me as R? Or anything other than Grantaire or cynical drunk or pain-in-my-ass?_ “By next Friday's meeting would be preferable. Meeting adjourned.”

Grantaire slowly turned back to the bar and took a long pull of whiskey, pointedly ignoring Éponine's knowing stare in favor of drinking away any and all regret.

*

That weekend, Grantaire wasn't able to focus on very much besides making drafts for flyers. He texted Combeferre for statistics, who directed him to Éponine, who gave him some not-so-fun facts that nearly tempted him to start carrying mace. Beyond that, he had little to no interaction with much of anyone, holed up in the mezzanine as he worked out designs on sheets taken out of his sketchbook. He wasn't even bitter about using up his own materials; paper and pencils could be purchased, but the satisfaction of pleasing Enjolras had to be _earned_.

By Sunday evening, he had six eye-catching drafts with shocking statistics, and a few taglines that were catchy enough to stick in your head, but not so much that they read like comedic slogans. He also ended up with six drafts of a text to Enjolras, before he finally muttered “fuck it” and hit send.

  
  


> _hey, i know it's a lot earlier than the deadline, but i finished up some drafts_

  
  


He agonized over other word choices he could have used—why did he have to mention it being early, what if Enjolras thinks it means he didn't work hard enough, and should he have capitalized anything, is Enjolras the capitalization sort?—until his phone buzzed with a response two minutes later.

  
  


> _wow, already? that's great. my morning lecture's been canceled, so you could swing by around eleven-thirty or twelve tomorrow if that works for you._

  
  


> _gotcha. though having your address would probably be helpful_

  
  


He pressed send, then promptly hit himself on the forehead with his phone. _Just had to be snarky about it, huh?_ Enjolras either didn't take offense or didn't want to argue over text, though, because the next message was an address and directions. Grantaire set an alarm for the morning, just to be safe, and took an anxious shower.

The air the next day was a bit chilly, but the sun had no clouds in its way and warmed things up comfortably. He'd been tempted to take a walk before meeting Enjolras, but he was afraid that he'd lose track of time and wind up at the other end of the city with only fifteen minutes to go before they were scheduled to meet. Instead, he restlessly sat on the couch with Marius (who had the same canceled lecture as Enjolras) and Courfeyrac, who hooked a laptop up to the TV in order to stream an American channel about houses and the like.

“Do you know how many hoops we had to jump through to get an account with an American TV provider?” Courfeyrac had asked rhetorically while Marius criticized an overly-picky couple. “The answer is too fucking many. But lemme tell you, HGTV is worth the trouble— _oh come on_ , they're turning it down for _that?_ You really think you're gonna find a house perfectly suiting your standards _and_ that wimpy budget? Stubborn-ass Americans, my god...”

Grantaire ended up outside Enjolras' building at about ten 'til twelve. It was a well-kept Baroque building in the 6th arrondissement with tiny balconies on the windows and a staircase that was so nice he felt like he'd have to pay rent just to sleep on one of the landings. He climbed up to the fifth floor and knocked on a white door labeled 512, pristine besides faint scuff marks near the bottom, while tightly gripping the straps of his knapsack.

Not only was he in a building that he clearlydidn't belong in, but he was in said building to meet Enjolras _._ At Enjolras' apartment _._ Him, the guy who was sleeping in a fast food restaurant's bathroom not even half a year ago.

He didn't belong there. He didn't even belong at Marius and Courfeyrac's, if he was being honest with himself. Did he belong in Paris at all? Maybe his entire situation was just some cosmic joke, a spectacle for the powers that be. Toss the piece-of-shit vagrant artist in with a bunch of idealistic people with nice homes in the middle of fucking Paris and watch the mess play itself out—

His spiraling thoughts were halted when he heard footsteps coming from inside. The door swung open to show Enjolras wearing a rumpled Henley, hair mussed. “Sorry,” he said, “I fell asleep.”

God help Grantaire's soul. “No worries,” he shrugged after a thick swallow, entering as Enjolras stepped aside. The living room was bright and airy, with off-white walls and slightly mismatched furniture on a large rug, on which he noticed a tangled blanket in a sunny spot. If the implication that Enjolras had taken a nap basking in the sun was an accurate one, then this was honestly too much.

“Nice place,” he commented offhandedly as they sat on the couch.

Enjolras, the social justice fuck, looked a bit sheepish at that. “My parents kind of forced me into it.”

Grantaire squinted. “How does one force their child to live in a nice-ass apartment?”

“By deciding that if they don't keep up appearances you'll just cut them off,” Enjolras responded wryly. “They don't exactly approve of my life choices.”

Because he was a fucking idiot, Grantaire only said, “Oh.”

Enjolras shrugged it off, just slightly awkward.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, my parents and I aren't on good terms either,” Grantaire offered. Because, again, he was a fucking idiot.

Enjolras frowned confusedly. “Why would that make me feel better?”

“I dunno, some sort of schadenfreude shit, I guess? I mean, at least we're alone together, right?”

That sounded a bit more intimate than he'd wanted, but it seemed that Enjolras either didn't notice or just didn't care. He shook his head. “We aren't quite alone.”

“Well maybe you aren't,” Grantaire countered dryly, “but I've got no family to speak of.”

Again, Enjolras shook his head. “Les Amis,” he said simply as if it was an explanation in itself, and perhaps it was. Grantaire didn't know how to respond to it, though, didn't even quite know how to process it, so instead he opened up his knapsack and began pulling out sheets of paper.

“So about those drafts,” he transitioned abruptly in a piss poor excuse of a segue. Mercifully, Enjolras went along with it anyway. Grantaire pulled out the six plain sketches with color swatches and thrust them toward him, Enjolras taking them gingerly like it actually mattered if they were damaged.

“These are perfect,” he complimented genuinely.

Grantaire shrugged, because they weren't _that_ good. Either Enjolras had low standards, or he was just trying to spare his feelings. (Then again, neither of those were likely where a Cause was concerned.) “Just uh, pick whatever ones you want me to clean up and finish...”

Enjolras kept looking through them, as if he couldn't decide. He finally selected two and handed them back over, Grantaire proceeding to mark the chosen designs with his pencil. He unceremoniously stuffed them back into his bag, causing Enjolras to raise his eyebrows at the carelessness.

“So I'll make up some proper, colored, less shitty versions of these and leave off the words so you can type it on digitally?” Enjolras nodded. “Alright, pleasure doing business with you then.”

“Actually,” Enjolras began hesitantly, causing Grantaire to freeze in the middle of closing up his bag, “I was about to go grab lunch, if you'd like to join me?”

Grantaire's head jerked up to see Enjolras watching him intently. “Sure,” he answered hastily once his mind caught up. “Sure, yeah, let me just...” He fastened the buckle on his knapsack and stood. “Lead the way.”

Enjolras ended up leading him to a coffee house down the street. It was quaint and charming, and according to Enjolras it was fair trade, which was apparently an important factor. He tried to pay for both of them, but Grantaire insisted on paying for his own. That idea was just too much like a date for him to be able to handle.

“I've never seen your art before today,” Enjolras mentioned as he sipped at his sugary coffee and poked at his salad, subtly eyeing his parfait as if he'd rather just eat three of those for his meal.

“I don't really show it off,” shrugged Grantaire, who had ordered the same thing but with a black coffee (unfortunately un-spiked, as there would be no way to avoid Enjolras noticing and the consequential Look).

“Why not?” Enjolras asked curiously, and Grantaire shrugged again as he swallowed a mouthful of vegetables.

“Because it's not really _worth_ showing off?”

Enjolras frowned. “Well, now I'm asking, so it isn't showing off. So may I please see some of your work?”

Grantaire took a long drink of his bitter coffee and longed desperately for an alcoholic variant. No point in lingering on that now though, because Enjolras was staring at him intently with bright blue eyes and _fuck_ , Grantaire couldn't say no to him.

He shifted forward in his seat so he could remove one strap to swing his bag around within reach and pull out the sketchbook, which felt remarkably similar to pulling out his own teeth. He flipped it open to the most recent finished page: a clean sketch of the protest with splashes of watercolor. His friends were standing on and around the monument, Enjolras posed fiercely with dynamic aggression rippling through his form, the megaphone replaced by a huge red flag flapping in the wind and licking at the air like flames.

Grantaire handed the book over warily and Enjolras took hold of it as if he was being handed a priceless historical artifact. His eyes widened with a sharp intake of breath once he got a look at it.

“R... Grantaire, this is...”

He shifted awkwardly. “Yeah, it's just uh, you know. A little thing I scribbled out.” Admittedly he was selling himself short; he actually spent a few hours on that piece. But still, it wasn't anything worth gawking at.

Enjolras shook his head vehemently, not looking away from the artwork. “No, no, this is incredible, this is... Why aren't you in it?” he questioned abruptly, snapping his head up.

“Well—you see how the angle is? It's from my perspective, that's about where I was standing. Luckily I could see everyone where I was so I just kind of... imprinted it for later, I guess?”

“So this is how you saw it, then.”

“Essentially, yeah.”

Enjolras stared down at the work again, lips parted slightly. “But I look so...” He could have ended that observation with _beautiful, incredible, breathtaking,_ or any number of things and have been accurate. Instead, he left the sentence open-ended and looked back up at Grantaire, who shrugged in agreement.

He stared at Grantaire in slight awe for a moment (and being on the receiving end of such a look would probably never be anything but odd) before an easy smile emerged on his face with wonder glittering in his eyes. Grantaire distantly wondered just how many different smiles this guy could take his breath away with.

“Do you use any other mediums?” Enjolras asked curiously. Grantaire blinked, startled by the sudden interest directed at him and his art. He'd expected Enjolras to take a look, hardly acknowledge it at worst and act like a parent with a shitty drawing from their kid at best, then move on. Instead, he actually seemed to legitimately give a damn.

Grantaire picked a leaf of lettuce up with his fingers and popped it in his mouth. The bemused expression he received at the action grounded him with its normalcy.

“Sometimes,” he finally answered. “I typically stick with graphite, watercolor, and charcoal these days. Occasionally acrylic. I used to paint with oils a lot, but...”

Grantaire thought back to the last and only time he got to work with oils—an art colony in the Netherlands, where he modeled for lodging and traded his body for art supplies. There was one resident he stayed with the most (he never learned the guy's name, and the artist never knew his either) who liked to paint Grantaire after fucking him. Whenever he wasn't around, he gave Grantaire free reign over his supplies. Oils quickly became a new favorite of his; the man called him a natural with them. Between the oil paint and the praise, Grantaire could have stayed there forever (which was exactly why he left).

He realized that he'd just trailed off on that last sentence and Enjolras was still waiting for him to finish it, so he shrugged and said, “Money, y'know? They're fucking expensive, oils are. You'd think they were pigmented with faerie dust or something.”

Enjolras nodded thoughtfully and carefully passed the sketchbook back to continue eating. They ate in companionable silence after that, Enjolras finishing his salad first to quickly dig into his parfait. When he began scraping off the last bits of cream to deftly lick it off his spoon (which should honestly be illegal), Grantaire glanced between his unfinished salad and his own dessert before hesitantly pushing the small dish across the table. Enjolras blinked at him with wide eyes, then glanced down at the food and back up. Grantaire languidly gestured toward the parfait, one corner of his lips quirked up in an expectant smile. That was enough apparently, and Enjolras accepted the treat with barely subdued delight.

Grantaire watched fondly, his smile fading slightly a moment later with a hint of puzzlement appearing on his face in its stead. He waved off Enjolras' inquisitively raised brow, smile returning easily as the other stuffed his mouth like a starving man. Still, he couldn't help but wonder: since when did they communicate non-verbally?

*

Grantaire tried to work on final copies of the posters that evening and for part of Tuesday, but he was distracted by a sensation in his chest that was one part fluttering and one part seizing up. Every time he thought about Enjolras or his smile or the way they talked like actual companions, his heart danced like he was a teenager with a dumb crush. But when he thought of his sort-of-like-a-date with Enjolras, he also thought about their conversation, and when he thought about what they talked about, he went back to remembering the Netherlands.

His few months at the art colony had been wonderful and hedonistic, filled with art and sex and intoxication by way of drink or otherwise. Once everyone knew him, though, he ran to a new place where he could be anonymous once more.

In Paris, he'd already lost his anonymity. He had an entire group that knew him as well as anyone possibly could; he had someone who'd known him from years past, knew some of his secrets and his history; he had people who now probably mentioned him in stories they told to other acquaintances and drinking buddies, spreading knowledge of his existence like a virus.

This time, unlike before, he couldn't leave so easily. The art colony had been fun and comfortable, but he always kept himself distanced from it. It was like a vacation, a long-term party, something that was always known to be temporary. Paris, however, had become so much more. He'd let this place and the people in it become something like home. He fucked up.

Wanting to direct his anxious energy elsewhere, he hid his distress away and stress-cooked a hearty lunch for his roommates and whoever else. He ended up sharing the meal with Courfeyrac, Marius, Bahorel, Jehan, and Éponine, and they all lazed about in the living room with full stomachs and carefree laughs.

His friends did a fine job of keeping him occupied until the meeting, and Grantaire only had a little bit of roiling anxiety as they walked there that evening. Enjolras smiled at him when he entered (to Combeferre's knowing amusement and Courfeyrac's teasing nudge), and the remaining distress faded to make room for more of the warm feeling that spread in his chest and took over his head.

The way he poked and prodded during that meeting was more teasing than provoking, and Enjolras took it in stride, the two of them batting arguments back and forth like it was a sport. Even Marius looked aware and entertained. Grantaire knew that he looked like a smitten fool, but he couldn't bother to care.

After the meeting ended, Enjolras approached him. Éponine gave him a playful nudge before she got up to sit next to Jehan at the table under the guise of a conversation (though he was positive that they were both subtly watching and eavesdropping).

“Hey,” Enjolras greeted, and Grantaire quirked his brow.

“Hey yourself,” he responded like a fucking cliché. “What's up?”

Enjolras cleared his throat and shifted slightly, causing Grantaire's eyebrow to rise higher as he wondered _what the hell could have_ Enjolras _so nervous, and should I be worried?_

“I was thinking about yesterday,” _god me too, you have no idea_ , “and I...” He trailed off, then reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a small wooden trunk. “To commemorate your first event with us,” he said, and Grantaire was suddenly breathless because Enjolras was holding out a set of premium oil paints.

Openly gaping, Grantaire shakily and gingerly took the chest in his hands. His mouth worked for words, but all he could whisper was a weak little, “Holy shit _._ ”

“I wasn't sure what to get seeing as I don't know much on the subject, but I asked Feuilly for advice. This has a palette, palette knives, a couple of brushes, and some linseed oil. It's the one that the person at the shop recommended,” he explained, his straightforwardness an antithesis to the mess that Grantaire was as he continued staring at the gift in shock. Enjolras cleared his throat again. “So, is it alright?”

Grantaire laughed, breathless and nearly hysterical. “Is it _alright_?” He looked up and Enjolras, blinding and wonderful Enjolras, and said seriously, “This is the most amazing thing anyone's ever given me.” Enjolras relaxed, but Grantaire looked down at the trunk again and shook his head rapidly. “I, I can't just accept this though, it's so...” _So valuable, so perfect, so much better than I could possibly deserve._

Having lost any trace of anxiety, Enjolras shook his head assuredly. “It's foryou,” he said seriously. “Take it.”

Grantaire looked up to meet his eyes, sky blue and determined but somehow soft. Swallowing down the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, Grantaire nodded with half a smile. “Thank you.” Enjolras smiled back, genuine and satisfied, and Grantaire was so beyond in love.

*

As much as he would have liked to paint through the entire night, he had to buy canvases first, so Grantaire forced himself to sleep. Upon waking, he'd come down from the giddy daze of the previous evening—though that wasn't to say that he didn't still feel more excited than he had in months, if not years. With steps that were without his typical lag, Grantaire leisurely went about his morning routine before going out to find a store with art supplies.

The apartment was empty when he returned half an hour later with a couple of canvases and a cheap easel, the door tellingly locked when he tried to enter. As he turned his key and swung the door open, Grantaire had a vague notion to lock up behind him so any of their friends would assume the place was empty. That felt like breaking house rules though, so he simply closed the door and went upstairs.

He decided to start off with a depiction of the window across the room, so he set himself up facing off the mezzanine for a good view. With his palette primed and loaded, he mixed pigments and layered them onto the canvas, roughly laying out the large window with orange light seeping in and _oh, whoops,_ he'd blocked out Enjolras standing in front of it.

Grantaire sighed at himself and decided to set that canvas aside and switch to the other smaller one, laying out colors for scenery. Clouds, trees, a fiery sky, an empty road stretching out into the distance... He stared at the horizon he'd painted for a few minutes, stomach churning, until he hurriedly put it aside to go back to the first piece. Lovesick portrait, it is.

Slipping into a single-minded concentration that almost resembled a trance, Grantaire placed and mixed pigments as he saw fit, an image vividly coming together in his mind as it formed beneath his brush. Enjolras standing proud in the warm illumination of the window behind him, hair and jacket disheveled, staring forward belligerently with eyes like blue flames and a tattered red flag clutched in his hand.

Time flew past him, the only sign that the earth was turning at all being the changing light that flooded the room. As the bright light of day finished its transition into sunset's glow, the door in the living room swung open. Grantaire heard two steps, the door closing, and one more step before a pause.

“The fuck is that smell?” Courfeyrac finally asked, sounding more curious than anything.

“Oil paint,” Grantaire called down. “Sorry, you get used to it.”

“Oh neat, can I see?”

Grantaire hummed his assent before abruptly realizing what he had painted. He regretfully glanced between the portrait of Enjolras and the abandoned scenery piece and wished that he'd worked on the latter instead. Too late, though, because Courfeyrac was already eagerly climbing the stairs.

After turning the corner and stopping behind Grantaire to look over his shoulder, Courfeyrac went disconcertingly quiet. Grantaire shifted uncomfortably.

“It, uh, still needs some detail work on the environment,” he explained stiltedly, unable to bear the silence for any longer. He glanced behind him to see Courfeyrac gaping at the canvas, mouth ajar with a hint of a smile tugging at its edges.

“That's Enjolras?” Grantaire nodded and braced for hell. “Dude. He looks fucking _bad ass._ ”

Relieved for a reason he couldn't really name, Grantaire exhaled with a light laugh. “I just roughed him up a little and gave him a flag,” he shrugged, but Courfeyrac shook his head and grinned.

“No way, there's no way you can convince me that this is anything other than bad ass.” Grantaire ducked his head and tried to suppress a smile. “And he looks just as angry and mildly terrifying as the real Enjolras!”

“Did I capture the 'ready to single-handedly take down capitalism' vibe?” Grantaire joked, and Courfeyrac laughed.

“Oh, for sure! He looks more than ready to take down capitalism, he looks like he's about to dismantle the entire world order!” Grantaire laughed as Courfeyrac peered at the painting intensely. “For real though, he looks like a—like a revolutionary god, or something.”

Grantaire cackled internally at the irony. “Yeah?” Courfeyrac nodded fervently. “Good, that's what I was going for.”

“Well you totally nailed it,” Courfeyrac said before grabbing Grantaire's arm. “Come on, let's get dinner! My treat.” As if he could tell that Grantaire was about to protest, he added, “You can just paint me something as payment,” with a wink. “I'll become an art collector!”

Grantaire snorted. “Yeah, a collector of mediocre art by a freeloader, real classy.” But as Courfeyrac dragged him off, Grantaire didn't complain.

*

Grantaire spent the first half of Thursday working on final editions of the flyers Enjolras had chosen. He finished the line art by late afternoon, at which point he bid goodbye to Marius (who responded with a strangled noise from where he was poring over a thick textbook on the couch) and headed off to the park.

His repertoire was apparently expanding, because today he found himself playing cheesy love songs. They still had a bit of a melancholy vibe to them, of course—he wasn't going to stray _too_ far from his brand—but by his standards, they were pretty damn sappy. It earned him some decent tips though, so he wasn't complaining.

After strumming the final notes of a deceptively cheery-sounding rendition of a song about literally following a lover into the dark void of death, he was approached by a familiar traffic cone colored scarf, worn by Bahorel and followed by Feuilly.

“Hey there, Capital R!” Bahorel greeted loudly, drawing a few startled looks from passersby.

“Afternoon, Bahorel, Feuilly,” Grantaire returned, before leaning back against the stone wall with his hands behind his head and guitar balanced in his lap. “So, what brings you two to my little corner of Paris's fine parks?”

“Passing through,” Feuilly responded with a shrug. “I had a day off so Bahorel and I are seeing some foreign indie film.”

“Supposed to be real profound,” Bahorel added. “You wanna tag along?”

“While I would love to take advantage of the coincidence of your passing through this particular park, I'm afraid I'll have to decline,” Grantaire decided, seeing as he had a guitar case with him and wasn't in the mood for deep introspection with subtitles. “I am working here, you know.”

“Yeah, we heard,” Feuilly said with a knowing smile.

Bahorel grinned smugly. “So, you and Enjolras, eh?”

“Eh, well...” Grantaire shrugged noncommittally, a bit embarrassed under the scrutiny.

“Ah, come on, no need to be shy,” Bahorel egged on. “We could hear you halfway across the park! You and your mushy little love songs.”

“They were lovely though,” Feuilly added, and Bahorel nodded.

“Fuck yeah they were. Pretty damn telling too, though, I gotta say. I am a lawyer, you know, I'm trained to notice these things.”

Grantaire, whose mind was stuck on 'pretty damn telling' (and _this goes beyond Enjolras, all these people know, what am I doing_ ) veiled the beginnings of distress with a laugh. “Not a lawyer yet, you know.”

“And you never will be with how many classes you skip,” Feuilly snarked, and Bahorel nodded curtly.

“As it should be.”

Feuilly turned his attention back to Grantaire with a smile. “I really am glad things are working out with you two. I half thought you were going to get in a fist fight at the rate you were going.” Grantaire snorted.

“I'm glad too but honestly I'd've paid to see that,” said Bahorel. Feuilly snorted and punched him in the arm.

“Really, though,” he added sincerely, “I think you're good for him.” Grantaire swallowed down his anxiety at the gravity of that statement.

“About time our Achilles found his Patroclus,” Bahorel jested.

 _Shit,_ Grantaire thought as he laughed weakly, _that's too accurate. I'd actually die for him at this point, wouldn't I? I'd be a more-than-willing Patroclus. When the hell did I let it go this far?_

Bahorel, not noticing Grantaire's turmoil (after all, he worked hard at keeping such things hidden) continued teasingly, “You know, maybe you'll end up moving out of Marius and Courf's after all, if only to move in with a certain someone else.”

The comment itself was lighthearted and paired with suggestive brows and good humor, but Grantaire felt as if his slipping mood had suddenly been pulled out from under him, landing him in a pool of ice. His traitorous mind displayed the image of signing a lease that would bind him and chain him down, and then another of signing a lease with _Enjolras_. His face in his mind's eye looked overjoyed. Grantaire himself felt sick.

Feuilly seemed to notice the subtle pallid look to his face, thank god, and nudged Bahorel as he nodded in the direction they'd been heading before. “We'd better go or we'll miss the film.”

“Oh fuck, you're right. See you, R, have fun with your serenading!”

They both waved goodbye as Grantaire responded with an affirmative, and Feuilly shot him a curious look as they walked away, which he waved off with a forced smile. Once they were out of sight, he took a few deep breaths and tried to push away the ideas that had been forced into his head, images that felt both pleasant and terrifying (and the very fact that part of him found them pleasant at all only added to the terror). It was almost funny, he thought, that just a few minutes ago he was practically floating with his thoughts of Enjolras. Now, though, with the concept of this—whatever _this_ was—becoming something permanent, he felt weighted and anxious.

He brought his shaky fingers back to the strings of his guitar, but after he placed them, he couldn't do anything more. He felt stuck, hands immobile, unable to play a single chord. None of the notes seemed right, and the only music in his head was the rhythmic bumping of train tracks.

Abruptly and with a huff, Grantaire packed away his guitar, hastily stuffing his earnings into his pocket. He then took a deep and desperate drink from his flask, uncaring of who saw him, before briskly making his way out of the park, cursing his very being with each step.

Everything had been so good for a while. For once, Grantaire had felt like maybe things would actually be okay for him, like he could really have something nice this time. He'd gotten ahead of himself, and this was his call back to reality. Grantaire couldn't have permanent things; the laws of nature didn't permit it.

As he walked, he tried to look around and let the Parisian sights calm him, but his mind refused to wander from thoughts of running, home, escaping, settling, the horizon, Enjolras' eyes, train tracks, Enjolras' smile, Enjolras, Enjolras, _Enjolras_.

He went back to the apartment, collapsed in bed, and didn't get up until the next morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought this was finally getting happy, huh? Sorry, I'm a writer, it's my job to fuck shit up.
> 
> Combeferre's tattoos are inspired by Suzy Berhow/Mortemer's, just with more space stuff. The poets Jehan quoted were Walter de la Mare and ee cummings.
> 
> Now that we know where Enjolras and Combeferre live, here's a fun little note: the border between the 5th arrondissement (where Courf and co live) and the 6th is the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Huzzah for references.
> 
> And I know that traditionally in France lunch is a bigger meal, but do you really think Enjolras gives a damn? Nah rabbit boy over here just wants something to keep him from keeling over.
> 
> Also Grantaire isn't kidding about money and oils. Shit's fucking pricey.
> 
> (The bit with Enjolras basking in the sun is inspired by/an homage to[ Years Since It's Been Clear by lady_ragnell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/972688), because once that headcanon got in my head, it never left.)


	7. Wanderlust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up must come down (in a horrific downward spiral of depression).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little yikes, so a general warning for self-destructive behavior and Grantaire being Grantaire. Ya'll know how he can get.

Grantaire tried to keep himself up and lighthearted the next morning, hoping that maybe if he just didn't let himself drop off, he'd never plummet. He ate a nice breakfast, chatted with Marius and Courfeyrac, and Joly and Bossuet when they showed up, laughed at their jokes, made a couple of his own. On some level he knew it was futile; he'd dropped off the ledge the instant his brain took the concept of permanence and ran with it.

The issue was as such: though Grantaire was well aware that he had no real reason to feel so distressed and that this was merely a gross overreaction to a few snide remarks, ones that any other person would have taken in stride with only perhaps a bit of embarrassment, he was entirely unable to stop himself from taking those comments as deadly blows. The sudden reminder of the situation and of the growing attachment between himself and the others, after a time of distracting infatuation, had resulted in such emotional whiplash that it left him unable to keep himself together.

He did this sometimes—talked himself into a hole and then kept on digging, made a small issue worse with his own exaggerating, melodramatic thoughts. It wasn't always so bad; there were many cases where his depressive state lasted as little as an hour. This time, he could already tell he wasn't going to be so fortunate.

Maybe love made him weak. Maybe opening up so much had left him vulnerable. Whatever the cause, the fact of the matter was that he was pretty much fucked. For the time being, though, he wanted to try to hold it off for as long as he could. Even though having friends and attachments was part of what brought this on in the first place, maybe the company could at least slow his decent.

His mind was morbidly determined when it came to giving him hell. He needed all the help he could get.

Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet drafted him into hanging out after Marius left for class, which at least served to keep him occupied. ( _That's all they're good for then,_ _keeping you occupied? Some friend you are._ ) They went out to a cozy family-run restaurant for lunch, and he was grateful to be with the chattiest of his friends who wouldn't give his mind a chance to drag him off.

“I can't believe I'm just now asking this,” Courfeyrac began around a bite of pasta, “but what wonderfully touristy Parisian sights have you seen so far?”

Grantaire paused as he chewed a bite of chicken, looking up as if recollecting and compiling a list, before answering assuredly, “The Place de la République.”

His friends stared in silence.

“Seriously?” Bossuet questioned, and Grantaire shrugged.

So far, his explorations in Paris had only led him to some lesser-known discoveries; that book store and coffee shop with an eclectic selection of novels, the best spots to relax in various parks, unlocked rooftops with picturesque views, a small garden wedged between two buildings. He walked around for a while when he first arrived in Paris and saw a few famous sights, but he never got around to doing anything in depth. Sure, there were things he'd like to see—the Louvre, the National Library, the Mazarin Library—but it just hadn't come up.

Joly shook his head and lamented, “This is a tragedy.”

“It's a goddamn outrage, is what it is!” agreed Courfeyrac. He turned in his chair so he was facing Grantaire head on. “You, my friend, are in need of some tourism. ASAP.”

“Better late than never,” Bossuet agreed cheerfully, and Joly nodded. Courfeyrac slumped down in his chair and tapped his chin in thought.

“Now, the real question is where to take you.” He peered at Grantaire, who leaned away from the intent assessment. “It's already past noon, so nothing that's an all-day event. Something without a set schedule would be best...”

Across the table, Bossuet tapped Joly's arm and did a few covert gestures indicating his leg, cane, and some other things that Grantaire couldn't translate. Joly, of course, understood completely, lighting up with an excited affirmative. Bossuet did a final little head cock, Joly nodded once more in confirmation, and then he turned to Courfeyrac.

“Courf.”

Courfeyrac, who'd been squinting into the middle distance, looked up to see Joly and Bossuet grinning and waggling their eyebrows, Bossuet throwing in a wink for good measure (though it was really more like tilting his head and blinking oddly). It took him a moment, but then Courfeyrac gasped so loudly that Grantaire was impressed he didn't choke.

“Chapel Run?” Bossuet suggested.

“Chapel Run!” Courfeyrac shout-whispered.

“Chapel Run,” Joly confirmed.

Grantaire blinked. “What.”

“R, my friend,” Courfeyrac leaned in conspiratorially, “you're in for a damn good time.”

As Grantaire soon discovered, the Chapel Run was a route devised by Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bossuet of some of the most impressive churches (“The Grande Mosquée too, no sense in being exclusive!”) in Paris, accompanied by theatrical historical commentary. Half of the commentary for Notre-Dame was Courfeyrac performing a one-man rendition of _The Hunchback_ thereof—the seductive dances of Esmeralda earned wolf whistles from Joly and Bossuet, and scandalized looks from tourists—so Grantaire elected to take most of the information with a grain of salt.

Whisked through the streets and Métro with at least one of his friends touching him at all times, Grantaire hardly had the chance to get lost in his head, the distraction proving so effective that it almost seemed intentional. He still wore down throughout the day though, losing more and more enthusiasm as time went on. Come early evening, he was barely dragging his feet behind them. He'd intended to struggle through, not wanting his friends to notice his predicament, but they seemed to pick up on it anyway and concluded their tour to head back to the apartment.

(Joly mentioned his leg as an excuse, likely for Grantaire's benefit and to keep him from feeling at fault for ending the excursion, but Grantaire wasn't sure whether he was grateful or guiltily uncomfortable.)

Marius had returned already, so the five of them sat around in the living room until the meeting. Grantaire tried to keep up with the conversation, but he felt himself slowly slipping out of it until it was just the other four talking with the very occasional word from him.

Joly and Bossuet noticed and convinced him to join their pile in the recliner, his legs over Bossuet's lap and his body half-behind Joly. Courfeyrac decided he felt left out, so he grabbed Marius by the arm to join in. From there, they were all a tangle of limbs, just barely staying in the chair without anyone falling to the floor.

It was nice, actually, the warmth and tactile comfort helping to ground Grantaire for at least a little while. He tried to enjoy it as well as he could, listening to their laughter and trying to laugh along, but he eventually distanced his mind from the situation and got to thinking about whether or not they should even keep him around, whether or not he was just dragging them all down with his cynicism. By that point, it was a lost cause. A cuddle pile could only do so much.

The night seemed darker and colder as they walked to the Musain that evening, and Grantaire wondered whether it was due to the time of year or if it was just him. He lagged behind the group during the walk, trying to alleviate their occasional glances back with tight smiles.

He was the last to enter the amber-lit café. Enjolras nodded at him amiably as the door closed behind him, but this time the warmth in his chest was barely lukewarm.

Grantaire settled into his seat at the bar and offered Éponine, who eyed him oddly, a quick almost-smile. She didn't look reassured in the least, but she didn't give him more than a look when he asked for whiskey, and gently touched his hand when he began to subconsciously dig his nails into his palm.

He was quiet that night and everyone seemed to notice, directing worried looks to him and questioning ones to Éponine, who only shook her head minutely. She'd witnessed Grantaire in his lows before, knew from experience that asking questions and going out of the way to comfort him could make him feel smothered and distress him further. At least he could count on Éponine to leave him be until she found it serious enough to warrant concern for his safety. (He distantly wondered whether that was actually a good thing.)

The most he said during the pre-meeting socializing was a reassurance that he just wasn't feeling up to par that day, which earned him a small and well-meaning lesson from Joly on hydration and rest and stopping oncoming illnesses in their tracks, which Bossuet backed up like a medical hype man. Grantaire realized that this observation likely would have been found funny by the others, and was disappointed in himself for not sharing it. The meeting started then, though, so the chance was lost forever.

The few comments he made during the meeting were bleak, and he gave up on all of them before they could even begin to debate, accepting all of Enjolras' refuting statements with a lazy shrug and a grim imitation of a smile. “Maybe so,” he'd conclude without conviction. Then Enjolras would look at him with both frustration and thinly veiled concern, and Grantaire's mind would whisper, _you see? You're bothering him. Stay longer and it'll only get worse. Stay longer and he'll get sick of you._

Enjolras tried to approach him after, but Grantaire just waved him off with a wan smile. “Don't you worry about me, 'Pollo. Hygieia has merely abandoned me for the moment and left me feeling a bit tired. But if you see Asclepius, tell him to come my way, or at least for Epione to come soothe me—or Dionysus, for that matter.”

He took a drink for emphasis, and Enjolras rolled his eyes.

The excuse was accepted easily enough for Grantaire to be almost disappointed. So he drank, more than he had in a while, then went home and slept.

*

Saturday was no better, and the hangover certainly didn't help.

He heard Courfeyrac and Marius leave for their classes that morning, ignoring their farewells in favor of feigning sleep. Once they were gone, after minutes or maybe hours of silence, he rose and forced himself to finish the last details of his painting. He hoped that maybe if he stared into the imitation of those burning eyes for long enough, some of the peace he'd felt before would return to him. It didn't work, but he got the painting to where it was at least passable, so he put it on the floor and picked up the abandoned scenery piece. The horizon and fading distance still made his chest ache, but now even the mere image of an escape drew his attention.

He left the apartment on the cusp between afternoon and evening, before Courfeyrac and Marius got back. After an indeterminate amount of time aimlessly traipsing, he dragged himself to a bar that he judged as looking shitty enough to be cheap (he was right), not returning to the apartment until late in the night. Both of the other men had already retired their rooms by then, either to study, sleep, or just laze around, so Grantaire went to bed and tried not to feel like he was sullying its sheets with the smell of liquor.

Jehan came around the next afternoon looking concerned and hopeful. Grantaire loathed that his ridiculous emotions were causing anyone to stress, and the guilt of making Jehan feel anything negative was far too much, so he humored them and let them try to teach him how to knit.

They were still finishing up the probably-a-hat that they'd been working on in Bahorel's company a while back (Grantaire was in no state to be able to discern the passage of time, but he was fairly certain it'd been at least a week). While Grantaire was struggling through a simple scarf, Jehan abruptly cheered and held their work up with pride.

The finished product was an evergreen cable-knit beanie, a closer look showing that the yarn was also interwoven with fibers of black and other shades of green. After a moment of admiration, Jehan turned and crammed the hat onto Grantaire's head, adjusting it so that it slouched in the back and sat comfortably over his ears, his curls spilling out around his face and neck.

“There you go!” said Jehan, smiling at Grantaire's dumbfounded expression. “Now you have something to wear besides that old red one you wear so much; I swear that thing's going to fall apart sooner rather than later. Anyway, I've made things for everyone else in the group, so now it's sort of like you're official! Now I need to start on something for Marius' girlfriend, it's only a matter of time before she starts coming to meetings so I might as well get a head start...”

Grantaire almost wanted to cry for more reasons than one. Instead, he just said thank you and offered that Cosette liked baby blue and lilac.

He decided to go out again that evening, and specifically chose not to wear his new hat, so as not to taint it. With his ink-black hair free and mussed up so as to look slightly debauched, he hunted down some seedy joint that was in business on a Sunday night. (His thoughts took on Enjolras' voiced and sneered at him for applying himself to this shameful behavior rather than something useful.)

His money had built up a bit during the time he spent with a somewhat decreased alcohol intake, but he didn't want to just blow it all off on booze. Instead, he found a relatively clean-looking guy and convinced him to treat him to a few strong drinks, which he chased down with cock. It wasn't his first time using that method of payment, but it was the first time he felt so disgusting afterwards, the first time he had someone to disappoint.

Grantaire was horribly aware of that he was spiraling fast and hard, but he didn't know what to do about it. He'd usually move on and start over once he reached such a point, but now he felt too chained down to even run. Jehan had knitted him a hat, for christ's sake, how could he just leave?

As he navigated the dimly lit streets that suddenly felt so strange and unwelcome, he received a text from Éponine.

 

> _parnasse has seen u around and said to tell u that not getting a good nights sleep is bad for ur complexion_

 

The tempest of self-loathing and anxiety calmed for a breathe of respite at Éponine's special brand of expressing concern.

 

> _tell montparnasse that i'm already a lost cause in the looks department but thanks for the tip_

 

He hoped that would be enough to put her at ease.

The tempest raged on.

He went home ( _no, not home, don't call it home, that only makes it worse_ ) and took a very long, very hot shower, not even sure just what he was so desperate to wash away.

Nothing of note happened the following day. He stared at the ceiling for most of it, and made himself feel like shit for not working on the flyers. Courfeyrac and Marius, trying to cheer him up in their own weird little way, had him watch HGTV with them again and had food delivered to the apartment. It was appreciated, but all he could think about was that if they knew what was actually bothering him—what was actually _wrong_ with him—they probably wouldn't be so accommodating.

He could barely taste his food, but he ate obediently and prayed to a non-existent god for this to end.

*

The quickly approaching meeting the next day only caused his anxiety and restlessness to intensify as the evening drew nearer. He didn't know if he could fake any semblance of cheer for his friends, didn't know if he could even look Enjolras in the eye; all he knew was that he was going to drag them all down with his gloom and make them look at him with horrible pity. He wasn't sure he could handle it, and that ever-present force trying tug him far away from Paris had grown beyond a pull. It had turned into a beast that clawed up his insides as if trying to rip its way free from his body so that it could run off on its own.

Early in the evening, while Marius was out with Cosette, and Courfeyrac was off doing god knew what (and he knew it was stupid, but he had a nagging notion that not being invited along was only proof that they were tiring of him), he received a text from Enjolras.

 

> _looking forward to seeing you at the meeting tonight._
> 
>  

Grantaire stared at the text. Was it passive aggressive? Was it a subtle way of conveying expectations that Grantaire was sure to never meet? How long would this go on—his distress, his anxiety _about_ the distress, earning and deserving nothing but disappointment, annoyance, frustration...

It was too much; this city was too much, having so many friends was too much, the responsibility and expectations were too much— _he_ was too much. He was always too much, and if he couldn't handle himself, how could anyone else? Better yet, how could he be so cruel as to subject others to him and his burden?

He was tired. He was so, so tired.

That settled it.

Grantaire stuffed his belongings into the suitcase he hadn't realized he'd stopped living out of. He hated himself for this: for leaving his friends behind, for cutting them off before they could do the same to him, for running away from Paris, from them, from Enjolras. But these were all reasons that he had to go. Leaving felt awful, but staying would surely kill him in the end.

He left his paintings and paints up on the mezzanine, because how could he keep such a gift when he was doing this? (Though he did guiltily leave the green hat on his head, for the fierce gentleness of Jehan Prouvaire to protect him from the world in the form of a painful reminder.)

He didn't look back as he walked out the door.

Locking up behind him was like breaking his own heart. It felt oddly like betrayal, leaving when no one else was around, even though it was what he'd always done in the past. He reached up on top of the door frame to hide his key—no, not _his_ key, just _a_ key, because it was never his and this was never his home. None of this was ever really his. Walking away without the key in his pocket felt final and devastating, but he ignored the tightness in his throat and kept walking.

Paris in the setting sun wasn't beautiful that evening. The dying leaves that looked to be aflame in the light were just that: dying, leaving the trees bare and exposed. The streets were cold, filled with strangers who didn't know that Grantaire was falling apart in their midst. He didn't look around to get one final look at Paris; he walked swiftly with his eyes trained on the ground in front of him.

His heart broke as he pawned off the guitar, and he stifled memories of the cards he'd set in the case's neck and the songs he'd played for his friends. It broke as he rode the Métro to reach the train station, and broke further still when he entered the ticket sales office. The room was bland and as foreboding as the gates of hell. He felt like the walls were closing in. Why was his chest getting so tight, why were his lungs constricting, when he was finally giving in and leaving?

Turning on his heel and darting around bystanders, Grantaire escaped outside to breathe, letting the cool air ground him as he listened to the Seine's waters. Unable to bare the guilt of it, he tore the beanie off and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, letting his curls spring out. He almost certainly looked a mess with his messy hair and pallid face, wan and grim with dread and self-loathing evident beneath his flat eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Recalling his promise to Éponine, the one he'd made weeks or maybe eons ago, he pulled his phone out to send a text before turning it off.

 

> _i'm sorry. i can't anymore._
> 
>  

He hated himself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this got a little fucked up. I really didn't plan on it getting that dark--though I didn't plan on it getting so happy in the previous chapter either, so I guess I had to balance it out somehow.
> 
> Regarding the abruptness and intensity of Grantaire's mood drop, well, that's BPD for you. Sometimes, especially after a period of hypomania/euphoria, the smallest thing can bring up intrusive thoughts so that you essentially trigger yourself, and then from there it's just a slippery slope of unhealthy coping mechanisms and impulsive self destruction making you feel progressively worse. Sorry, R.
> 
> On a lighter note, Courfeyrac's one-man performance of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame is something I never want to stop imagining.


	8. Love Ire & Song (Reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home.

Enjolras received the text from Éponine as the sky approached dusk, with only a couple of hours to go before he had to be at the Musain. He had actually been apprehensive about the upcoming meeting, more so than he'd ever been for rally planning, important announcements, or anything else that most people would find daunting. Activism and politics he could handle with ease; Grantaire, not so much.

When his phone vibrated, he half expected the message to be from the man himself in response to his earlier text. When he opened it though, the hint of uneasiness he'd held onto since the last meeting spread into a cold and heavy dread.

 

> _r's panicking and trying to leave. my ppl spotted him around gare d'austerlitz._
> 
> _BE CAREFUL WITH HIM OR I WILL CASTRATE YOU._

 

Not for the first time, Enjolras was incredibly grateful for Éponine's connections. He could thank her later, but at the moment, there was no time for gratitude. He hadn't the capacity for the emotion, anyway; all he could feel was alarmed confusion and an overwhelming need to run. Slipping on his shoes, he sent a group text out to every Les Amis contact but one:

 

> _meeting canceled. gather at courf's. éponine can explain._

 

Trusting her to handle the situation and Courfeyrac to sense the urgency and not protest unexpectedly playing host, Enjolras rushed out of his quarters and through the living room. As he slipped his coat on, he called a quick “check your phone” to Combeferre before slamming the door shut behind him and making his way out into the cool evening air that he was too preoccupied to even feel.

He happened across a taxi down the street and hopped in, spilling out directions and promising extra payment for speed, shaking his leg impatiently as they drove. Near the Odéon station, just barely after the vehicle stopped moving, he gave the driver what was probably an absurd amount of cash before jumping out and making a mad dash for the Métro. Distracted apologies were shouted over his shoulder to those he bumped or brushed as he ran down the escalator to impatiently await the line 10, which he boarded promptly, anxiously gripping the metal pole next to the doors as he silently willed the train to move faster.

With nothing to do but stand and wait, Enjolras was given the opportunity to ruminate over the situation, and to think about Grantaire. If he was a puzzle before, he was an impossible conundrum by this point. Enjolras had noticed that something was off at the last meeting, but why was he leaving now? After the two of them finally seemed to be making progress, after Enjolras had taken him out for lunch and Grantaire had shared his art? He'd felt that they were finally getting somewhere, and he thought that the feeling was mutual.

Suddenly faced with the possibility of losing him, Enjolras realized that he didn't simply like Grantaire. He _needed_ him, needed him in a way completely unlike how he needed any of his other friends. After all, how could he possibly fight without Grantaire by his side? How could he make the world a better place without Grantaire to show it to? He'd always wanted to change the world, but it was always abstract in a way, a matter of rights and justice for the general populace. Now, he wanted to change things, in part, for one person in particular; to make the world better so that Grantaire could enjoy it. It almost felt selfish in a way, as if he was losing sight of the Cause, but he knew that wasn't the case—he wasn't being selfish, he was simply being human.

Something sharp flared up in his chest, icy like the cold metal biting into his palm. He couldn't let him leave. He was sure there was some reason for Grantaire to have spent so long moving without stopping, but at the moment, he frankly didn't care. Whatever it was, he was putting a stop to it.

The train screeched to a stop, the grind of metal setting his teeth on edge. Enjolras hurriedly deboarded at the Gare d'Austerlitz terminus and railway station and did a quick survey of the likely areas (ticket sales, waiting area, café—hell, he even checked the toilets), only to find that Grantaire didn't seem to be in the building. That was good, right? Unless it meant he'd already left...

No, this was no time to be negative. _Get it together, Enjolras._ He'd never given up before, and he wasn't about to start.

He ran out the dock-side doors and across the street, instinct leading him in the direction of the Seine. His breath caught and he choked down a reflexive shout when he spotted a lone body down on the docks, sitting on the concrete steps with an old suitcase by his feet.

Enjolras vaulted over the chain link fence that separated the street's wide sidewalk from the lower-level docks, stumbling down the short but steep decline of ivy-patched stone wall that ended in a short drop-off to the ground below. Careful not to damage anything (as this would be about the worst possible moment to sprain an ankle), he hopped off the ledge to land firmly on a carpet of ivy, steadying himself on a small tree before stepping onto the concrete. He strode forward, fists clenched with a sudden rush of anger—anger that Grantaire was here and not with their friends where he belonged, that he was leaving when Enjolras felt that they'd become so much closer, that he was going off on some new adventure without a _goddamn word_ and would have left them all wondering, not knowing a damn thing beyond that he'd vanished, if not for Éponine.

When he drew nearer, though, Enjolras stopped short. Hunched in on himself in the dimming light, a cigarette held between loose lips, Grantaire didn't look at all boisterous or flippant; he looked alone. Vulnerable, even.

Anger and frustration released in a single calming breath, Enjolras swallowed his trepidation and walked forward.

*

Grantaire breathed in through the cigarette and let it hang limply in his mouth. His flask had gone dry, so he finally splurged on a pack and a lighter, desperate for something to hold him together when he felt so much like he was fraying around the edges.

He heard someone coming up behind him, footsteps that started out heavy and determined before faltering and becoming cautious, as if approaching a flighty deer. Grantaire had an inkling of who it was, and while part of him hoped to god that he was wrong ( _just let me go, make it easier on the both of us, please_ ), another part wanted so desperately to be right.

The person sat next to him, far enough not to touch but close enough for Grantaire to feel a hint of achingly familiar warmth that just barely seeped through his jacket's flimsy protection. He didn't look, not even when a hand reached over to pluck the cigarette right from his lips.

“You're missing the meeting,” Enjolras said after taking a drag, voice cutting through the oppressive silence as thin smoke reached toward the final dregs of sunset before dissipating. ( _Damn you, Éponine._ )

“So are you,” Grantaire retorted impassively. He held his hand out beside him until the cigarette was gently placed in his fingers, and he raised it to his lips to inhale deeply. “What you doing here.” A demand, not a question. He passed the cigarette back, eyes trained on the water ahead, and ignored the jolt he felt when their fingers brushed.

“I could be asking you the same thing.”

Grantaire chuckled humorlessly as he listened to Enjolras inhale their shared poison. “I think that's pretty clear,” he said with a vague gesture toward the suitcase. He held his hand up between them once more and waited.

“But _what_ are you doing here?” Grantaire could hear the unspoken _why_. Why would he just leave, why does he always run away, why was he such a coward, why, why, why.

“Been here too long,” he answered. Truthful, but far too simple to be totally accurate. “It's better that I go.”

His hand was still suspended in wait as the sun's last shades faded beyond the horizon. Enjolras sounded confounded when he asked, “Why would you think that?”

Grantaire sighed heavily. (He felt like the tainted air he breathed was more poisonous than tobacco or nicotine, wanted to warn Enjolras, tell him to run before it was too late, before Grantaire ruined him.) “Because you'd think so too, eventually,” he confided, voice blank, emotions inaudible. He impatiently shook his hand. “Hand it over.”

“Why won't you look at me?”

“You're just full of questions tonight, huh.”

“Grantaire, be serious.”

“ _Serious_?” Grantaire dropped his arm with a hefty breath that could have been an aborted laugh, sigh, or sob, and leaned back to look up at the endless void of sky. _“_ I'm fucking _wild_ , Apollo.”

The corners of his lips lifted in a sad, bitter imitation of a smile, bordering on both a grimace and a snarl. As he continued, his static guise slowly began to unravel and reveal the desperation, self-loathing, despair. “An animal, filthy and depraved. A caitiff creature, a ruin of humanity; a wild, sullying thing, tainting the very ground I—”

“ _Grantaire._ ” Enjolras' voice was loud and commanding, with a hint of what almost sounded like fear, and muted Grantaire instantly. Lower, but still just as firm, he repeated, “Why won't you look at me.”

Grantaire's expression was carefully empty, but anguish leaked out at its edges and desolation shadowed his eyes, staring up at the sky where clouds and light pollution smothered the stars. When he finally answered, it was only a whisper, his voice an antithesis of the howls and screams in his skull.

“If I see your face, I might not be able to leave.”

The silence was a vacuum. The air only returned when Grantaire felt the filter of the cigarette poking at his loosely curled fingers where they rested on the concrete. He accepted it with movements that were both sluggish and tense, and drew a slow breath before dropping what remained to grind it into the ground with his ratty sneaker. His exhale was shaky as he blew out the smoke.

“I have to,” he said with a false air of finality. “I got too attached and so did all of you, and now I have to leave. Before it gets worse.”

“What—we _like_ you _,_ how is that bad?”

Grantaire groaned and slouched forward to press sharp elbows into his knees and frigid hands into his eyes, falling apart at the seams as they spoke. “You don't get it _,_ Enjolras,” he stressed.

“What don't I 'get,' Grantaire?” demanded Enjolras, frustrated and desperate and too much, always too much. “What is it that I'm not understanding, what the hell is _wrong?_ ”

Grantaire was silent for a pause, letting Enjolras' breathing, heavy with vexation and turmoil, fill the still air.

“You see?” he finally said, voice still directed toward his knees. “You're upset now. That's what I do. I'm bothersome, I wear down on people until they can't stand me anymore. I'm surprised you've all held on this long, and even more that you're still sitting here.” He hated being so damn open but he couldn't stop anymore; he was raw and bleeding and the wound just wouldn't close up. And when Grantaire had wounds, he could never help digging into them further.

“You think that we'll want you to leave,” Enjolras observed quietly after a long pause, “so you're leaving first.”

Let no one claim Enjolras to be entirely oblivious, because he was so accurate just then that it felt a bit like being stabbed.

“Did someone make you think that?” Grantaire didn't bother answering. Enjolras could connect the dots if he really wanted to.

He heard shifting that moved to stop in front of him, and suddenly there were hands on his wrists gently pulling them away from his eyes. Grantaire sat up obediently but kept his face pointed down and away, refusing to look at Enjolras where he crouched before him. He could practically feel his gaze burning into him as it was, and Grantaire knew that if he looked at him head on, he would fucking shatter.

“Grantaire,” he heard Enjolras say softly, his voice quaking as if it was an incredible feat to keep it all packed down to such a low volume. “We will not get tired of you.”

Grantaire started to shake his head in denial, or maybe just a plea to stop, but the hands on his wrists squeezed slightly before letting go to grip his shoulders instead. “No, I need you to listen. Please.”

He stilled and heard Enjolras take a steadying breath before continuing, quiet and warm but too resolute to possibly deny. “You were right in thinking that we've gotten attached. We are. We care about you just as much as we do each other, because you're our friend. You're one of us.” Grantaire made a choked noise in his throat that was embarrassingly close to a whimper, but Enjolras hardly even paused.

“I don't know why anyone would ever hurt you like that, but whoever it was doesn't matter anymore. You're here now, with us. You're important to us, Grantaire, you're important to _me,_ and... I don't want you to go. None of us do, and none of us ever will. Okay?”

Grantaire felt a telltale burn behind his eyes and _shit shit shit,_ this was too much, he wanted it to stop but at the same time he wanted it to keep going forever.

“I don't want you to leave,” Enjolras reiterated concisely. “I will _never_ want you to leave. You're sarcastic and disputatious and absolutely confounding and you've known how to push every single one of my buttons from the very start, but you're also funny and kind and goddamn talented, and you're the only person who I can debate with like that. We disagree and we argue, and I'm all the better for it. You don't even believe in our cause, yet you come to every single meeting anyway and I'm not even sure _why_.

“You're so good, even though sometimes you pretend not to be. You do so much despite not believing in anything, and I don't understand it but I want to.”

Grantaire shook his head, a single barely-there motion, and confessed softly, “I believe in you.”

Enjolras went silent, pausing in a way he never did during his normal speeches. Grantaire wanted both to hide away and to look up and see his face, see the cogs he was sure were working in Enjolras' head, gears turning behind his eyes like Marius' watch.

The choice was taken from him when Enjolras declared, “I'm in love with you.” Grantaire's head snapped up on pure reflex.

Enjolras was close and watching him with eyes like dawn, sparking with something that wasn't the usual revolutionary fervor, but was just as captivatingly intense. He was fiercely gentle, or gently fierce, or something else that was both blindingly bright and comfortably warm, and Grantaire couldn't look away.

“I've fallen in love with you,” he said again, just as firmly if not more so, “and I will never want you to leave.”

A tear finally fought its way out and trailed down Grantaire's cheek, followed by another, and another. He couldn't speak. Instead, he grabbed Enjolras by the shirt and surged forward to finally, _finally_ , press their lips together, and hoped that it would be enough to say what he couldn't. Enjolras, pliant but nearly matching him in desperation, moved one hand to the back of Grantaire's head so that when they broke apart, he could pull him into his chest. Grantaire went willingly, the bridge of his nose slotting against Enjolras' sternum, who held him tightly as if to keep him from floating away.

“Stay,” Enjolras whispered into his hair, a word holding every bit of pleading and pure need that it could possibly contain without overflowing. Grantaire took a deep and unsteady breath.

“I still won't believe in your cause,” he pointed out weakly, voice slightly muffled. He felt Enjolras nod once.

“I know.”

“And we'll still argue and fight over stupid things.”

“I know.”

“And I'll still be a broken mess.”

Enjolras squeezed him tighter and spoke with a tenderness that enveloped him like a blanket. “Then I'll try to hold you together.”

Grantaire slowly untangled his fingers from the fabric of Enjolras' shirt to instead wrap around him and hold on with all the desperation of a drowning man. For what felt like the first time in his life, he felt safe, secure, with a warmth in his chest that more than made up for the night's chill. After ages of trapping the feeling inside and letting it swallow him whole, he finally whispered aloud, “I love you.”

There—with a hand cradling the back of his head and an arm wrapped around his cold body, holding him closely as if to merge them into one, so closely that with every breath all he could smell was linen, warmth, home, Enjolras, Enjolras, _Enjolras—_ Grantaire wished to never be anywhere else.

*

Their hands were still clasped tightly as they stood in front of the door labeled 401. Enjolras' other hand was occupied by the suitcase that he'd insisted on carrying, while Grantaire's reached up to nervously adjust the knit beanie that had returned to its rightful place atop his head.

Enjolras had offered to take him back to his own apartment instead, providing an escape from the gaggle of concerned friends that surely awaited him. Tempting as it was, Grantaire knew that if he took the option to hide away, he'd be reluctant to ever come out.

He'd been stalling for several minutes already, eyeing the door that was locked despite the presence of its inhabitants (as Enjolras said was often the case when Les Amis went into crisis mode). Still, he didn't regret his decision yet—despite the slightly awkward run in with Montparnasse, who had been waiting for the elevator when they came up. He'd regarded their interlocked fingers and Grantaire's puffy eyes with a raised eyebrow before simply nodding to R and continuing on his way. Enjolras' bewildered expression alone made it all worth it.

Grantaire took a steadying breath and raised his free hand to knock, but then thought better of it and instead reached up to check on top of the door frame. He moved his fingers along the ledge for a second, tongue poking out in concentration, before a whispering a victorious “ah- _hah!_ ” Rocking back on the flats of his feet, he displayed the key with a self-satisfied smirk. Enjolras look bemused, the quirk of his lips serving to make Grantaire feel a little less like he was off to the gallows.

He slid his key in and turned it, glancing back at Enjolras and receiving a squeeze in response. _Alright, it'll be fine, let's just get this over with... Breathe in for four, out for... Ah, fuck it._

Grantaire swung the door open and entered with false confidence in his step, but stopped short at the sight of all his friends frozen in place and staring at him with wide eyes.

Éponine was leaning on the wall by the stairs, arms folded in a tense attempt at looking casual. Joly looked like he'd been pacing along the length of the breakfast bar, halted mid-step with one hand on his cane and the other curled up in front of his mouth. Bossuet and Musichetta were both on bar stools, hands pressed tightly. Bahorel, Feuilly, and Combeferre were all on the couch—Bahorel had frozen in the middle of cracking his knuckles, Feuilly had a hand on his shoulder, and Combeferre was leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers loosely linked together, glasses slightly askew. Jehan, teary eyed, was sharing the recliner with Courfeyrac, whose arm was wrapped around their shoulders.

Grantaire was slightly surprised to see Cosette there as well, sitting on the floor near the armchair. Next to her sat Marius ( _oh, Marius..._ ), who was cross-legged and facing the door as if he'd just been waiting there like a sad puppy.

He heard the door click shut as Enjolras stepped forward so they were side by side. There was a long silence, no one quite sure what to do, Grantaire staring at his friends while his friends stared right back. Jehan suddenly whipped their head around to look to Éponine for guidance, Joly and Combeferre following suit. She startled slightly, seeming to regain herself as her eyes darted between the expectant faces then back up to Grantaire. She cleared her throat, then moved to push herself off the wall.

“So,” she began, but the syllable had barely left her mouth before Marius scrambled up and rushed forward to fling himself into Grantaire.

He stumbled slightly, Enjolras letting go of his hand to brace him at the small of his back as Marius cried out, “You're home!” Grantaire blinked, stunned, before he finally deflated, apprehension leaving him in a rush. He raised his arms to return the embrace with a pat and a smile (which he would later claim was only _slightly_ watery).

“I'm back,” he managed, and as if his voice was a signal, the rest of his friends shot toward him in a harmonious clamor.

“Oh thank god!”

“We were so worried!”

“Éponine said not to make a big deal out of it but _someone_...”

“Is that jacket all you were wearing?!”

“I was about to force-stop every train in Europe—”

“ _Never_ do that again!”

Grantaire listened with a dazed, subtle smile, which grew as Marius relinquished him and Éponine and Bahorel both stepped forward to punch him in either arm. Courfeyrac and Jehan each pulled him into hugs, the former giving him a tight squeeze and the latter kissing his cheek before peeking up at his head with a touched smile that nearly held the amount of joy that Jehan Prouvaire deserved. Feuilly clapped him on the shoulder and pulled off his hat to ruffle his hair before cramming it back on.

Cosette hugged him and glanced at Enjolras slyly, and Grantaire grinned down at his feet as he adjusted his beanie. Combeferre, who had given Enjolras a knowing look similar to Cosette's, grasped his shoulder with a warm smile. As soon as he let go, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta took the opportunity to leap forward and envelop him in a group hug.

Enjolras' hand remained on his back the entire time, warm and steady, grounding him as his friends— _family_ , Enjolras had called them before—drowned him in affection. “I'm home,” he said with quiet finality, and the little squeeze in his chest felt like Enjolras' hand tightening around his own.

Grantaire was never homeless. In truth, he'd always had a home; it just took him a while to get there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the curtains close... Thanks for sticking it out to the end, you're a real trooper. I can't believe I actually finished this thing, nor can I believe that the longest thing I've ever written is a fanfiction based on a 150-year-old French book and inspired by an English folk singer's discography.
> 
> I actually went through several different endings when I was developing this. Like the first one had Enjolras die, then another had some journey of self-discovery, and one had Enjolras leave with Grantaire, and then there was a brief period where I planned on R becoming a cautiously optimistic leader... But then I ended up developing R's psyche further and I eventually ended up here? I don't even know what happened tbh, I just kept on going and suddenly I have a novel-length fic and more Paris trivia than I ever expected to hold (I've gotten so well acquainted with Google Maps, you have no idea.)
> 
> For real though, after all this research I fucking better base a book in Paris one of these days and put that shit to good use.
> 
> Some writing highlights:  
> *In-depth research on Parisian architecture and residences to a point of near excess.  
> *The moment I realized this was becoming a reincarnation fic.  
> *Making Courf and Marius HGTV nerds, because why the fuck not?  
> *Éponine suddenly becoming a fucking hacker, like I didn't even plan that it just happened idek.  
> *Montparnasse the secret softie.  
> *Research on French train stations nearing the level of the aforementioned architecture-related information gathering.  
> *Typing up these end notes before uploading and getting kind of emotional because I've been writing this for a little over three months and now it's done.
> 
> Thanks for reading this hot mess, kids. I really enjoyed working on it, so I hope you had as much fun reading as I had writing.
> 
>  
> 
> If you liked it, maybe consider [visiting my blog.](https://inquisitivelizard.tumblr.com/)


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